


The Consultation (Transformation #4)

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson), duskpeterson



Series: The Eternal Dungeon [17]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - 1880s, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Prison, Bisexual Male Character(s), Bondage, Dungeons, Ethical Issues, Gen, Historical slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentally Ill Character(s), Mentors, Multi, Murderers, Original Fiction, Original Slash, Prisonfic, Romance, Sadism, Self-Discipline, Slash, Torture, abuse issues, criminals, don't need to read other stories in the series, gen - Freeform, original gen, spirituality, torturers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/duskpeterson
Summary: "'I can see why this place would suit you. Your conscience need no longer bother you.'"He has come from the Eternal Dungeon to offer his services to another prison's head torturer. The only trouble is that the head torturer likes him too much.Separated from his love-mate and forced to serve in a prison whose practices violate the ethical code that he has long obeyed, the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon finds himself surrounded by temptation: the bodies of prisoners, stripped to provide pleasure for their torturers.Then the greatest temptation of all arrives. This one, the High Seeker realizes, he may need to surrender to, for the sake of his ethical code.Boilerplate warning for all my stories + my rating system.
Relationships: Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Eternal Dungeon [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/15843
Comments: 12
Kudos: 4
Collections: A Whisper to the  Dark Side, BDSM Fanfiction, Chains: The Powerfic Archive, Historical Fic, Queer Characters Collection, The Library of Bondage





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _**Author's note:** This is the fourth and final story in _Transformation _, the second volume in the Eternal Dungeon series. You don't need to read the other stories in the series to understand this one._

_The year 359, the third month. (The year 1881 Clover by the Old Calendar.)_  


Recently, revisionist historians – rightly recoiling from the smothering effusiveness of early biographies of Layle Smith – have suggested a very different portrait of the Eternal Dungeon's first High Seeker. They depict Layle Smith as a cold-hearted murderer and rapist who reached his exalted title as a result of chance and who remained, to his dying day, a dangerous and unscrupulous man, feared by all who met him. 

Ironically, the primary evidence for this portrait is drawn from Layle Smith's indictments of himself in his letters. To sense how far his self-image lay from reality, we need only read the most important eyewitness account of Layle Smith's First Madness. 

This account comes from the Codifier, the man who supervised the ethical conduct of the Seekers at the time of Layle Smith's High Seekership. Excerpts from the undated entries of his official records follow hereafter.  


> _* Report from Mr. Sobel [a guard] that Mr. Smith, while supervising the beating of a prisoner, seemed suddenly unaware of his surroundings. Mr. Sobel was alerted to this fact because Mr. Smith had been speaking words of comfort to the prisoner in the midst of the prisoner's pain. Mr. Sobel says that he has known Mr. Smith to have moments of unawareness in the past, but never to the point where it caused him to neglect his duty. Request from Mr. Smith shortly thereafter to receive discipline for his neglect of duty. Request denied; matter referred over to Mr. Bergsen [the dungeon's physician]._
> 
> _* Report from Mr. Bergsen that he has been unable to assist Mr. Smith in the matter of his dreaming spells and that Mr. Smith's problem appears to be worsening._
> 
> _* Report from Mr. Sobel that Mr. Smith, on the point of entering his prisoner's cell at his usual time of duty, suddenly refused to enter, stating that he was a danger to the prisoners. Request from Mr. Smith that he be given leave of absence from his duties. Request approved. Dungeon temporarily placed under the care of Mr. Chapman [Weldon Chapman, a Seeker of senior rank]._
> 
> _* Report from several of the inner dungeon dwellers that Mr. Smith's condition is affecting his ability to communicate with the other Seekers and the guards. Mr. Bergsen has requested permission to bring in healers from the palace to examine Mr. Smith more closely. Request approved._
> 
> _* Report from Mr. Bergsen that the consultation with the other healers proved fruitless. Request from Mr. Smith to be permanently released from his duties as Seeker and given duties in the outer dungeon that would not bring him into contact with the prisoners. Request denied. Have bound Mr. Smith into the care of Mr. Taylor [Elsdon Taylor, a Seeker]. Mr. Smith has been confined to his living quarters except when accompanied by Mr. Taylor._
> 
> _* Report from Mr. Bergsen that Mr. Smith's condition is worsening; his spells are now occurring several times a day. Mr. Bergsen does not believe that Mr. Smith is likely to become violent. He says that the problem is just the opposite, that Mr. Smith is withdrawing from this world. Mr. Taylor reports that Mr. Smith continues to abide by the conditions of his binding._
> 
> _* Mr. Chapman has voiced his opinion that the burden placed upon Mr. Taylor is too great and has asked to be released from some of his own duties in order to assist with Mr. Smith's care. Request approved. Mr. Taylor, when asked, has expressed the desire to continue searching his present prisoner. He reports that, when Mr. Smith is present at the searching, he remains silent. Mr. Taylor also reports that the prisoner is showing unprecedented amounts of sympathy and concern as a result of his witness of Mr. Smith's illness. Have requested Mr. Taylor to send this office daily reports on the condition of Mr. Smith._
> 
> _* Have received numerous requests from the other Eternal Dungeon dwellers to be of assistance in Mr. Smith's case. Have arranged for the Record-keeper to issue daily reports to the senior Seekers. Mr. Bergsen, Mr. Chapman, and Mr. Taylor all report that Mr. Smith's condition continues to decline. He is now spending more than half his waking hours in his dreamings._
> 
> _* Request from Mr. Smith to be confined to a locked cell, as he believes himself to be a danger to the dungeon dwellers. Request denied. Have given Mr. Taylor permission to take any steps he considers necessary to assist Mr. Smith._
> 
> _* Hourly reports are being issued by the Record-keeper on Mr. Smith's condition. The Queen has been informed._
> 
> _* We have lost him._

  
The last, heartbreaking entry is in such stark contrast to the Codifier's usual formal style that it provides a striking image of the depth of respect that Layle Smith's fellow workers held for him. Unfortunately, the Codifier was apparently so deeply troubled by the High Seeker's illness that this is his last entry on the topic. Thus we are deprived of his account of Layle Smith's struggle back to sanity. 

Revisionist historians have suggested that Layle Smith's "recovery" consisted of him passing from a coma-like state into a far more dangerous psychotic condition, in which he fully accepted the "dark dreamings" that apparently sparked the madness. From this point forward, the revisionist historians say, Layle Smith lost all sense of reality and became a destructive influence upon the Eternal Dungeon. 

This charge, resting as it does purely on speculation, cannot be easily refuted. Nonetheless, it is possible for more conscientious historians to reconstruct the steps Layle Smith took to emerge from his madness . . . 

_—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon._  


**CHAPTER ONE**

His duties had occasionally taken him to other dungeons and prisons in the world; the conditions in these less sophisticated places for searching prisoners had always made him wince. He had done his best to find tactful ways to suggest changes, and such was his reputation that sometimes his advice was taken. After all, the torturers told themselves, it is one thing to receive recommendations on prison reform from some soft clerk who has never in his life worked with stone-hearted prisoners. It is quite another thing to receive such recommendations from the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon. 

Never before, though, had Layle Smith visited a dungeon that smelled so appalling. He paused for a moment as the boom of the great iron doors closing behind him echoed through the room. Some of the smells he recognized: blood, of course, and human waste – that was to be expected. Even back home, where the laborers were fanatical in their efforts to keep the Eternal Dungeon clean, these normal prison smells lingered on. Yet there was more here than the usual noxious fumes. He thought he smelled rotting food and vomit and another smell that tickled at his memory in a pleasant manner – which worried him. 

He swallowed his instinctive reaction to the smells; he would not make a good impression here by throwing up on the threshold, and it was becoming increasingly clear how important it was that he make a good impression. This was a dungeon whose torturers were badly in need of being made to see that effective methods of preventing lawbreaking need not be incompatible with acts of humanity toward prisoners. 

He looked around the room he was in. Never before had he seen an entry hall that was so crowded with prisoners; new arrivals seemed to be streaming in at each moment. They were dragged to the record-keeper's desk, where the record-keeper would give them no more than a glance before assigning them a cell. Then they would be dragged off – one of the women prisoners was dragged off by her hair, Layle noticed with anger. This place was worse than any prison he had ever visited, since he left Vovim. 

He elbowed his way past a guard who was bashing a screaming prisoner over the head with a club, and managed to make his way up to the front of the desk. Murmuring an apology to a prisoner who was cowering before the record-keeper, he said, "I am Layle Smith. I was asked to come here for a consultation." 

The record-keeper flicked his pen into the inkwell nearby before looking up and saying, "Ah, yes, Master Layle, we've been awaiting you." 

"Mr. Smith," he corrected politely. 

"Really?" The record-keeper pulled a paper in front of him. "It says here you received your training at the Hidden Dungeon." 

He felt himself tense, but after all, it had been his own decision three years ago to release the information of where his origins lay. "I was only at Vovim's royal dungeon until I was eighteen," he said. "I had not yet been granted the title of master when I left. I completed my training at Yclau's Eternal Dungeon, where I received my full rank. I am addressed there as Mr. Smith." 

"Mm." The record-keeper started to make a notation on the paper, then stopped with a curse and flung his pen down. "Get me more ink!" he shouted at a cringing page-boy, who scurried off. 

"Right," the record-keeper said, fishing into his drawer. "The prisoner is in Cell 43,516. You'll be assigned your living quarters later. Your shift runs from midnight to dusk." 

Layle did not move to take the iron key that the record-keeper had placed before him. "It appears a misunderstanding has occurred," he said quietly. "I am here for a consultation only. My position remains at the Eternal Dungeon." 

"According to my records, you've been assigned a prisoner. Your shift will be starting soon; you'd better go check your equipment." 

Layle sighed. Record-keepers were the same everywhere. If they read something on a piece of paper, they thought it must be true. "Sir, I think I'd best speak with your head torturer now." 

"The High Master is busy. He's always busy. Complaints about work conditions should be delivered in writing to the communications committee, which will act upon them when appropriate." The record-keeper turned his head toward the page, who was returning to the desk. 

The page was pulling behind him a girl who was even younger than himself, perhaps six years of age. She was crying and saying, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt those puppies! I'm sorry!" 

The record-keeper ignored her cries. He grabbed the girl's arm and brought it down with a bang upon his desk. Then, with his free hand, he took up a sealing-wax knife and plunged it into the girl's arm. 

The girl screamed and tried to escape from the arms of the page, who looked as though he would faint at any moment but was holding her tight. The record-keeper carefully turned the girl's arm and directed the spurting blood into the inkwell. His aim was true; not a drop escaped to spatter upon the desk. Once the inkwell was filled, he gestured to the page, who pulled the sobbing girl away into the crowd. 

Layle had watched all this with the horrified fascination of a Seeker-in-Training witnessing the rack in use for the first time. Now he turned his attention back to the record-keeper and said evenly, "Is this a youth prison, sir?" 

"We take anyone we are sent." The record-keeper dipped his pen in the blood and carefully wrote down Layle's proper title. "Mr. Smith, I'm rather busy today, as you can see. If you have any questions about your assignment, I can place you under the care of one of the master torturers here." 

Layle looked over his shoulder. It had not seemed possible to him, when he first arrived, that more prisoners could fit into this hall, but while he had been talking to the record-keeper, the number of prisoners had doubled: they were squeezed tight against each other, like a pile of corpses crammed into a narrow grave. At the very edge of the hall, prisoners continued to pour in. 

Layle turned back to the record-keeper. "I'm sure that I can sort this problem out with the assistance of the torturer you mention. I thank you for your time and your help, sir." 

The record-keeper gave him a curt nod. "Try Cell 1. You're certain to find someone there. Don't forget your key." 

Layle scooped up the key, unwilling to cause further delay by argument. He nodded his farewell to the record-keeper and squeezed his way past the pleading prisoners in order to reach the low doorway through which prisoners were being thrust by their guards. 

He ducked his head to pass through the arch, and then paused to take in his surroundings. Like the Eternal Dungeon, this dungeon was housed inside a natural underground cave, but whereas the engineers of the Eternal Dungeon had built cells and living quarters within the cave in the manner of the lighted world, the architects of this dungeon had apparently taken a more creative approach, using the natural architecture of the caverns themselves. The corridor in front of him was made of twisting rock, with an occasional stalactite hanging from above, threatening to knock unconscious any unwary traveller. It was not clear what the source of lighting was in this place; the entire corridor was glowing dimly, too faintly for Layle to be able to read by, but brightly enough for him to make his way. He thought perhaps it must be some sort of phosphorescence arising from the rocks themselves. 

He found Cell 1 easily enough; it was the first door along the corridor. He hesitated at the entrance, but no guards stood outside the door. From the sounds throbbing through the thick door, he supposed the guards must be inside, assisting the torturer. He lifted the latch and walked in. 

The torturer was indeed hard at work on a prisoner, and the sight of the prisoner alerted Layle to what smell had tickled his nose earlier. Of course, he thought. It had been over twenty years since he had walked in upon a scene like this, but his mind had remembered the smell of burning human flesh. That smell was quite common in the Hidden Dungeon. 

This particular prisoner – who was alternating sobs with groans – was only being lightly roasted. She was bound in chains upon a grill encircling her, so that she could be slowly turned, each part of her body receiving the heat of the flames below her. It would take quite a while for her to break if she was roasted at this low level, Layle concluded. But then, he thought with growing disgust, he had known torturers who preferred slow pain over hard pain. . . . 

The torturer turned to look at the newcomer. He was a bearded man, broad-chested and tall, and with friendly brown eyes. He smiled and said, "Hello, Layle. Close the door, will you? I don't want the draft from the corridor to blow out this fire. It will take me just a minute to finish up here." 

Layle stood motionless, every spoonful of blood in his body pounding madly in its race. He could feel his face turning cold as the blood drained away. The torturer turned back and said to the guard rotating the grill, "You're taking her too far. Pull the grill up a few notches and bank that fire. Then start again when she's ready." 

The guard nodded and followed the instructions he had been given. The torturer picked up a cloak that was hanging from a hook nearby. Bits of flesh were hanging from the hook as well. He began to fling the heavy cloth over his shoulders, then glanced over at Layle and tossed him the cloak. "Here, they should have assigned you one of these. It can get a bit chilly here, unless you're working with a prisoner who requires fire." 

Long training kept him from speaking while in the presence of a prisoner being searched for her crime, but the moment that the door of the warm cell closed, Layle stood motionless in the corridor and blurted out, "Master Aeden, what are you doing here?" 

"My work," his old master from Vovim said with a smile. "What else would I be doing in the middle of a workday?" 

"But I killed you!" 

His master lifted an eyebrow. "In actual fact, you offered me the means to kill myself. But if you'd like to add murdering your master to the list of deeds your conscience tortures you about, you're welcome to do so. Do put that cloak on; this place will be colder further on." 

Layle fumbled himself into the cloak. There was something about his master's presence that made him feel like a youth once more. As Layle finished, Master Aeden flung his arm over his shoulders and began to draw him down the corridor, saying, "By the torture-god of hell, it's good to see you again, my dear! When I heard that you were coming here, it made my heart leap with joy." 

Layle would not allow himself to be distracted. "Master," he said in a tight voice, "you died. I saw you plunge my dagger through your heart." 

Master Aeden gave him an amused smile. "And did you check my heartbeat? Have a healer declare my death? Did you do _any_ of the things I taught you to do if a prisoner gave you the impression that he'd killed himself?" At Layle's silence, Master Aeden sighed and added, "My dear, you may have risen high in the world since your days as my apprentice, but you still have much to learn. I think I can help you to complete your training here." 

As he spoke, he drew Layle through an arched gap in the rocks. Beyond it was a small cavern with hundreds of stalactites hanging down. From each stalactite hung a body – a living body, writhing in its attempt to break free. No weights hung from the prisoners' feet; no scars marred their bodies. Nothing dragged the prisoners down toward mutilation or death. They were simply undergoing the usual sort of prolonged pain that accompanies being hung from a ceiling. 

Layle stared upward, his mouth open at the sight of the hundreds of bodies flailing in the air, each crying out or groaning in its own manner. The prisoners were wearing the clothes they had evidently worn in the lighted world, for they spread in a multi-colored pattern across the ceiling of the cavern, as though they were a wildflower field. 

He did not realize he had halted until he felt Master Aeden's hand urge him toward a doorway at the opposite end of the cavern. "Don't stop, my dear. I know that the cavern of hanging must be a delectable feast for you, but your shift will be starting soon, and I should brief you before that time." 

The cries faded away behind them as they made their way through another corridor, this one leading downward at a steep slant. The air was growing more chill; ice began to glint upon the rocks, and Layle could just see the mist of his breath in the increasingly darkening surroundings. 

"It should be warmer underground," he heard himself say. "That's one of the reasons we're able to save on winter fuel costs at the Eternal Dungeon." 

"Is that so? You'll have to tell me about that – but we'll have plenty of time for chit-chat later. Here we are." 

Master Aeden pushed open a door that led into what appeared to be a very small cell. It was not much different from the cells for prisoners at the Eternal Dungeon, though considerably more cramped: the room was barely big enough to accommodate the naked bed-shelf. There was no chamber-pot; a plank on the ground suggested that a pit served this purpose. A few items were stowed under the bed-shelf, mainly clothing. 

"Nice, isn't it?" said Master Aeden, looking at his surroundings. "I was lucky to get a residence this large. I'm afraid that, as a newcomer, you'll have to put up with living quarters a little less luxurious. Do have a seat." He waved his hand at the bed-shelf. 

Layle sat down on the hard bed, which was made of the same rock as the remainder of the room and was painfully bumpy. "Sir," he said, trying to take on the cool tones of the High Seeker, "you seem to be under the same misapprehension as this dungeon's record-keeper. Much as I would like to spend time talking with you, I'm afraid I'm only here for a short visit. I was asked to come here for—" 

"A consultation. Yes, I know." Master Aeden was crouched down, rummaging under the bed-shelf. "Why don't I ever have the proper food ready when guests come by? I don't suppose you want any of this?" 

He held up a dead rat. It had been skinned, but its tail had not been chopped off. Layle stared at it open-mouthed, his stomach heaving once more. Master Aeden sighed and tossed the rat under the bed-shelf, saying, "No, I suppose not. It takes a while to get used to the food in this place. Honestly, I couldn't recommend this dungeon to any torturer for its amenities. But oh my dear, the work conditions . . . Now, about your consultation." 

"You know about that," Layle said with relief. 

"Certainly; the High Master spoke about it. Well, not to me, of course. I'm far too junior for that. He spoke to his secretary, who spoke to the liaison, who spoke to the communications committee, who spoke to me. They knew we'd worked together in the past, you see." 

"And what does the High Master wish to consult me about?" Layle asked patiently, keeping his booted feet carefully far from under the bed-shelf, lest he trample upon any of Master Aeden's food. 

"A prisoner, naturally. We had a new one brought in the other day – he didn't look to the torturers who first searched him as though he would respond to the usual methods. Somebody suggested that the Eternal Dungeon has ways of dealing with prisoners that no other dungeon in the world has, so you were brought in, so that you can teach the rest of us how the Yclau torturers take care of their prisoners." 

"The Yclau Seekers," Layle said quietly. "There's more to being a Seeker than simply torturing a prisoner." 

"You see? We need you here; we're obviously neglecting important lessons that we can learn from the Yclau. I don't think we've ever had an Yclau torturer – sorry, Seeker – come to this place. They all seem to bypass this dungeon for some reason. Lots of other foreign arrivals, though. We're a popular destination." 

"Well," said Layle, pulling the cloak closer to his body in an attempt to shield himself from the chill, "I'll be happy to demonstrate the Eternal Dungeon's methods of searching prisoners. I'm only sorry I didn't think to bring a copy of the _Code of Seeking_ with me. I'll be sure to send your High Master a copy when I return home." 

Master Aeden stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. "You seem very sure you'll be returning home soon. Do you think that your duty to your new prisoner will end that quickly?" 

Layle hesitated before answering; he was taking in the eerie silence of this room. He was used to dungeons and prisons that were punctuated at intervals by screams, but he could only hear the faint sound of groans nearby. The part of him that remained always on-duty noted this fact and reached its conclusion: the low level of torture that he had hitherto seen in this place was not abnormal but common. For whatever reason, the torturers here were not permitted to take their prisoners to a high level of pain. 

There were various possibilities for why this was so. He hoped consideration of the prisoners' welfare was the real reason. 

"I don't want to underestimate the amount of time it would take to break a prisoner who has not responded to the efforts of your torturers," he said carefully. "That is particularly the case if the rules of this dungeon limit the amount of pain that can be used to bring the prisoner to the breaking point. But as I'm sure your High Master realizes, I cannot stay here for long. I have duties that must be tended to at home." 

Master Aeden, who had been kneeling as he continued to rummage through the rubbish pile beneath the bed-shelf, looked up at him. "I was told that the agreement made for your visit was that you would stay here until your work with this particular prisoner was through." 

"I made no such agreement," Layle replied patiently. 

"Our High Master seems to think you did. And our High Master is exacting about work terms being met." 

His master rose to his feet. His smile had disappeared, and he looked down at Layle as he had on the day that the youth had finally accepted the limitations on his ability to find pleasure in bed. There was a small, chill silence. 

"Sir," Layle said quietly, "is this dungeon under Vovimian control?" 

Master Aeden gave a sad smile. "I'm afraid so, my dear. You know what that means: no torturer who comes here to work ever leaves. And I'm afraid you won't find it possible to escape this time. This place is tightly sealed, and they'll be on the alert for you." 

Layle stood up slowly, his gaze travelling round the prison cell where his master was housed. He ought to have known from the moment he entered this cell, he thought to himself dully; he had lived in a cell like this during his years as a torturer in the Hidden Dungeon. But in those days he had been trusted enough to be permitted to leave the heavily guarded dungeon for occasional visits to nearby towns. 

That was before he had broken his oath as a Vovimian torturer by fleeing to Yclau for sanctuary. 

He looked over at his master and said in a level voice, "A death sentence was passed against me after I left Vovim. It won't be invoked?" 

Master Aeden gave a wry smile. "Only in a manner of speaking. I'm sorry, my dear; I know that this must be a great shock to you, as it is to me." 

"A great joy." His voice was harsh to his ears. "That's what you said you felt when you heard I was coming." 

"Shall we say my feelings were mixed? I knew your transition here would be hard, but truly, Layle, I believe that this is the right dungeon for you. You'll find work conditions here much better than at our old dungeon – or, for that matter, than at the Eternal Dungeon." 

Layle let out a deep breath and spent a moment walking the six paces possible from one end of the cell to the other. He placed his hand against the cell wall; it was as chill as a winter lake, numbing him the moment he touched it. He turned and pulled the cloak off, saying, "Here. You're older than I am; you're more likely to be affected by the cold." 

Master Aeden's smile deepened. "You haven't changed. But I've grown used to the cold here, Layle. You keep the cloak till you're issued your own." 

Layle shook his head, giving an incredulous laugh. "And if you die from a chill—" 

"Not at all likely, as you'll discover when you come to know this dungeon better. That's one of the benefits of working here." 

Layle felt his body beginning to tense, and he forced himself to relax. Placing the cloak at one end of the bed-shelf, he reseated himself at the other end of the bed, saying, "Master, I know that I've never been able to make you see why I need to work at the Eternal Dungeon—" 

"So? You have plenty of time to convince me now." Master Aeden sat down beside him and stretched out his legs with a sigh. "Ah, that's good. Dark-to-dark shifts exhaust me. . . . You were a youth when last we talked of the Eternal Dungeon, Layle. You're a full-grown man now, with a High Seeker's title to prove your worth. I'm more inclined to listen to what you have to say." 

Layle laid his elbows upon his thighs for a minute, resting his chin upon his interlocked hands. Finally he said, "Very well, here's the image I'll use to describe it. You know the Vovimian hell, where the torture-god and his assistants punish the guilty for eternity?" 

"I haven't forgotten it," Master Aeden replied with a smile. 

"I was told as a child that this was justice, because only the guilty were punished, and their evil was so great that they deserved to endure pain forever. I always thought this was a fitting image for the Hidden Dungeon." 

Master Aeden raised his eyebrows. "The prisoners at our old dungeon certainly didn't endure pain forever. Death awaited them." 

"Yes, but the concept of destruction was the same. The evil would remain evil forever – there was no chance of transforming the prisoner to good. But in Yclau . . . They don't believe in eternal hell in Yclau; they believe in eternal rebirth." 

His master leaned forward, interest written upon his face. "This is how the Eternal Dungeon got its name?" 

Layle nodded. "We try to give our prisoners rebirth from an evil life into a good one. But in order to do that we must first break them away from their old life – there must be a breaking before there can be a birth. It's as though the prisoners were chicks within their shells, painfully pecking their way out. That's why we use torture when needed – because some prisoners require external pain to reach the point where they can recognize the evil of their past and transform themselves into good." 

Master Aeden nodded. "So any torture that the Seekers inflict upon the prisoners is for the prisoners' sake alone." 

"That's right." 

"Mm." Master Aeden leaned back, stretching his legs out further so that his toes touched the icy wall. He wiggled his feet for a moment before saying, "Was I entering a dreaming, my dear, or did you go cock-high the moment we entered the cavern of hanging?" 

Layle felt the blood wash from his face. His master glanced over at him and added, "Forgive me. That was a blow outside the rule-books." 

"No, it's a fair question." He tried to keep his voice level. "You know I've always received pleasure from the sight of pain. That hasn't changed. I've tried various methods of handling my dark desire over the years, to stay within the Code I must abide by as a Seeker. None of the methods I've used included the method I employed in Vovim: simply allowing my dark desire to rule me, so that I tortured and raped prisoners to satisfy my lusts." 

The master who had taught him these skills seemed not at all disturbed by this indictment of his training. "And have these methods of controlling your desire been successful?" 

There was a long silence. Ice-water dripped from the ceiling, cascading into a pool near the pit. Finally Layle said, "So the news has reached this far." 

Master Aeden gave him another of his sad smiles. "How could it not? When anything important happens to the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon, every torturer in the world hears the tale." He reached forward and placed his hand over Layle's, saying quietly, "That's why I recommended to the High Master that you be brought here, my dear. Trying to follow the Code of the Eternal Dungeon has driven you mad before – I can't chance letting it happen again."


	2. Chapter 2

The High Seeker ran his thumb over the curve of the surface. The surface was chill and slick to the touch, and so transparent that he could see all that lay beneath it: the white skin of the prisoner encased in ice. 

Layle's hand ran up the ice above the prisoner's chest; his eyes were taking in the signs of age upon the prisoner's body. Then he reached the throat, and his thumb halted. The ice curved with the throat, following the line of the prisoner's body as though the body wore tight clothing. Layle pressed his thumb more firmly against the ice. 

It stung like a dozen bees upon his skin, but within seconds, water began to drip slowly down from where Layle's thumb heated the ice. After several more minutes, he had reached the whitened skin. 

It felt chill as well, but it was warmer than the ice. Under his thumb came a faint beating, at slow, irregular intervals. He spent a moment calculating its rate from the regular rhythm of his own breath. Then he brushed his thumb across the skin, feeling the height of the goose-pimples there. 

The throat moved slightly, embracing a swallow. He waited until the prisoner's swallow was gone, then closed his eyes and concentrated his hearing on the barely perceptible whisper of air emerging from the hole he had created: a breath, shallow, labored, coming at fitful intervals. Layle let his thumb slide away and he stepped back, frowning. 

"Well?" 

Layle glanced over his shoulder at his master. In this ice-covered cavern, the phosphorescent light was brighter than in the corridors outside, and Master Aeden's pupils were small spots against brown fields. Layle turned back to look at the prisoner. The man's whole body was encased in ice, including the eyes, but the glass-like ice showed the slight movement of the prisoner's eyes as he looked from his torturer to the High Seeker. His pupils were so wide that they nearly swallowed the color of his eyes. 

Layle reached over to the cavern wall upon which the prisoner was attached, standing stiffly upright. Pulling off a shard of ice, he raised it until it caught afire with light. The light-ray hit the prisoner in the eyes, but there was no change, either in his expression or in the eyes. 

Layle let the shard fall with a tinkle to the ground. "How long has he been like this?" 

"Can't you tell?" Master Aeden's voice was challenging, as it had been when he was training Layle. 

"Yes. But my answer doesn't match the evidence before me." 

"So what do you see?" his master asked softly. 

Layle let his gaze travel once more over the frigid form before he said, "The prisoner is about forty-five years old. He has worked as a laborer, probably in the fields, judging from the types of cuts on his hands. He is in the early stages of freezing. He can still understand easily any questions he is asked, and if you were to allow him freedom from the ice, his movements would be little impaired. He is at the stage where freezing is a pain, not yet a comfort to be embraced. The warmth is being slowly sucked from him. He is . . . four degrees colder than usual, I think." 

He heard a sigh from behind. "Ah, my dear," Master Aeden said. "I think your coming here is worth it to me just to hear those words. There have been times over the years when I wondered whether my memories of you were nothing more than the fond dreamings of a torturer nearing old age, who has created in his mind the image of an infallible apprentice." 

"Then let me break that image through my fallibility," Layle said, his gaze transfixed upon the prisoner's eyes, shifting from one speaker to the next. "At a minimum, your prisoner could not have been here for less than six hours – it would have taken that long for the ice to take the form it has. Moreover, he is entirely encased in ice, with no breathing hole. He should be dead by now. What's keeping him alive?" 

"If I told you, would you understand?" 

Despite himself, Layle felt a small smile touch his lips. "No. Knowledge of machinery was never my strength." 

"Yes, I'd gathered that from the number of times you broke my rack while it was under your use." Master Aeden's voice was dry. "If you hadn't been as skilled with prisoners as you were, I would have confined you to using the Adoration." 

"Too slow." Layle reached forward and touched the prisoner's skin again. The heartbeat had not changed. "There are better methods of breaking prisoners." 

He heard a sigh behind him. "Our eternal argument. I fancied you had come to recognize the value of a sure, steady method of dealing pain to prisoners." 

Layle said only, "How long has the torture lasted?" 

"Sixteen months. That's right, isn't it?" Master Aeden raised his voice, and the prisoner shifted his eyes toward the speaker. Otherwise, there was no movement of the eyes to indicate surprise. 

Layle felt a coldness enter his stomach and a wave of heat enter him further down. It was a combination he was used to, so he paid it no mind. "Why?" he asked quietly. "The prisoner can't even confess his crime to you – you've sealed his mouth." 

"Why should we want to hear his confession? We already know what he's done." 

There was a small silence, disturbed only by the wind whistling through the cavern. Where Layle's thumb had lain upon the prisoner's throat, the moisture had returned to ice. 

"I see," Layle said in a voice he could not strip of bitterness. "So this is like the rapes you taught me to perform as a boy. It doesn't matter that the prisoner has given his confession; you will continue his pain for a while longer, in order to demonstrate your power over him." 

He was aware, even as he spoke, that he was acting in an unprofessional manner, criticizing a colleague in front of a prisoner. He could not stop himself. This was how it had been in the old days, when he and his master had halted periodically in their work to argue with raised voices over the proper method by which to proceed, while the prisoner writhed between them, awaiting his fate. 

Now there was only silence. Finally Layle turned his head slowly. Master Aeden was looking at him with an expression that would have been unreadable, had Layle not been who he was. As it was, he could sense clearly the mixture of anger and pain that his master was successfully hiding from the rest of the world. "You are mistaken," Master Aeden said softly. "This prisoner was searched and confessed before his arrival here. This is a punishment dungeon." 

Layle turned his gaze swiftly back to the prisoner. The prisoner followed him with his eyes, the remainder of his body immobile. 

Sixteen months? 

Sweet blood, that was only the beginning. Layle felt his chest grow tight, all the pleasurable warmth below forgotten. He had known this was happening in Vovim. He should not be surprised. He should not feel the pain anew. 

This prisoner before him was the fruit of Layle Smith's tireless efforts to extend prison reform into his native land. As the result of international pressure that Layle had orchestrated upon Vovim, the King of Vovim had agreed to lift the traditional death sentence for some of the lesser crimes. 

And here was what the King had given the prisoners instead. Lifelong torture. 

Layle felt a grip upon his shoulder, and he became aware at the same moment that someone was softly cursing. It was himself. He bit his lip closed and let Master Aeden steer him out of the cavern. He was shivering as though he were the one encased in ice, and he was not surprised when Master Aeden, without comment, dropped his cloak back upon Layle's shoulders. His master's arm followed, and Layle allowed himself to be guided down the curving corridor. 

After a while, Layle asked, "Were you ordered to work here?" 

"Yes. But it makes no difference; I am pleased to be here. Now, hear me out, my dear," he added, though Layle had not spoken. "I know that the role of executioner never appealed to you – nor to me, for that matter. But if a crime is committed, someone must carry out the just punishment that the criminal deserves. You used to tell me that you hated the thought of torturing innocent prisoners. Well, you should be happy to work in a dungeon where every prisoner you torture is guilty and will merit the pain he receives." 

"Just punishment." Layle gave half a breath of laughter. "Master, you know well enough how little justice exists in Vovim. Do you truly believe that all of the prisoners here are guilty? That even most of them are?" 

"Yes, I do." 

The response startled him. He pulled away from Master Aeden's arm and looked over at the older torturer. His master said nothing, though, but trailed his hand over the whorled pattern of the rocks they were passing. "Beautiful, isn't it? Nature's art. It's been a while since you've seen prison art, I imagine." 

Layle was silent a moment, wondering, with professional calculation, whether this was the moment to press Master Aeden on the topic he was avoiding. Then he said, "Yes, I've missed that. I'm afraid that the Eternal Dungeon is of no great beauty, as outward appearances go." 

"Visit Vovim for the arts, visit Yclau for machines – that's what they say." Master Aeden's smile deepened. 

"We have art tradesmen," Layle said. 

After a moment, he recognized the defensiveness of his reply. He glanced at Master Aeden and saw that his master was openly grinning. A smile tugged at Layle's lips, and he conceded, "They deal mainly in Vovimian artworks. Yes, I miss the arts in Yclau. When I was quite young, before my father died, my mother and I lived in a cottage that had an etching framed on the wall. It showed the artist's concept of the divine world." 

Master Aeden snorted. "Why do I suspect that the picture was of the torture-god's dwelling?" 

Layle's smile quirked as they made their way down the corridor. "You know me too well. It was a beautifully detailed picture of hell, showing the great spiral downwards to the bottom of the pit. Every soul's punishment was lovingly depicted. At the very top of the picture, looking down upon everything, was a torturer – at least, I assumed he was a torturer, because he had a smile on his face. He was holding in his hand a tiny black object. I used to spend hours trying to decide whether the object was a hot poker or pincers." 

Master Aeden snorted again. "And you implied just now that I tried to corrupt you. My dear, any five-year-old boy who spends his days dreaming of torture needs no lessons in corruption from me." He stopped at a doorway and waved Layle forward. "You look a bit chilly – it's warmer in here." 

Layle stepped through the archway and was met at once by a blast of heat, as though from an overstoked furnace. He drew his breath in sharply; he was proof of the old saying that torturers cannot abide torture upon themselves. After a moment's pause to collect himself, he accompanied Master Aeden into the heart of the cavern. 

It was not as bright as the ice-torture cavern had been, and so it took him a minute to make out the dozens of figures before him. They were bound to poles, but he could see only their shoulders and heads, for the remainder of their bodies were immersed in a dark pool at the center of the cavern. His nose quivered with a familiar scent. Even before he drew close enough to see the color of the pool, he knew that it was composed of blood. 

A low humming like that of bees came from the mass of prisoners bound inside the pool. The moans were not loud or piercing; they were like the groanings of a man who has endured too hard a labor. Rimming the pool, watching the souls carefully, were men and women holding hayforks, occasionally poking any soul whose moans had diminished. They glanced up as the newcomers arrived, and a couple of them nodded their greetings to Master Aeden. 

Nobody greeted Layle, but he guessed that they knew who he was, for several of them drew back as he came forward, as though shielding themselves from a chill wind. He was used to that. Ignoring them, he knelt down next to the pool and cautiously touched the blood. It was uncomfortably warm, but not scalding. He looked again at the moaning souls, lingering in their suffering. 

An elbow nudged him, and he looked over to see that Master Aeden was offering him a cup. "Here," he said. "This will warm your body." 

Layle nearly had it in hand before he realized that the cup contained blood. He shook his head, and Master Aeden sighed. "You'll need to become used to the food and drink here, you know," the master torturer said. 

"No." 

Master Aeden's expression flickered; Layle guessed that the other man had surmised the all-encompassing nature of his reply. Rising up from where he knelt, Master Aeden said briskly, "It's crowded in here. Let's go where we can talk." 

They walked through the moaning cavern, passing between shadows and dim light, until they reached a narrowing of the cave. Layle followed Master Aeden through the gap and found himself in a cavern without light, other than what trickled through the doorway. Dimly ahead of him, he could see a river of blood moving sluggishly toward the pool behind them. Layle's heart beat hard for a moment, but when he looked for the source of the river, he realized that it was the rocks themselves, pouring out blood in a small waterfall. He could see no hole to escape through. 

The whisper of the fall was the only sound in this place; the moans in the nearby cavern were too faint to reach here. Master Aeden sat down at the riverbank, sipping slowly from the rejected cup and occasionally making a face at the taste. Layle sat beside him and stared at the river's surface, too dark to reflect any object. 

"My dear, how did it happen?" 

He did not pretend to misunderstand. "It wasn't due to the Code, master. I was a Seeker for nearly twenty years, abiding by the Seekers' Code, before the madness came upon me." 

He lifted his eyes toward his master. Master Aeden's long beard had touches of grey upon it, and his eyes were flanked by creases that had not been there when Layle was apprenticed to him. Otherwise he looked much the same as in the old days. Except for the line across his cheek. Layle had seen that line only once in his lifetime, upon their last meeting: when Master Aeden had stood outside the Hidden Dungeon, naked of all weapons and with the fresh scar of Layle's whip upon his face. 

"Master," Layle said quietly, "if you've had me brought here because you're angered that I tried to kill you, would it ease your pain if I told you I have regretted that deed every day since then?" 

Master Aeden lifted his eyebrows. "Why should I be angry at you? I'd tortured and raped your love-mate. Any man would have done what you did." 

"You were acting upon the King's orders. And as for vengeance . . . Elsdon didn't want me to hurt you. He tried to stop me from killing you. I did what I did, not for his sake, but for my own. Because I hated myself for feeling desire at the sight of his mutilations. Because I hated you for making me what I am." He flicked a rock into the water; it rose to the surface and floated down the river in the direction of the pool. In a low voice, Layle added, "You were right in what you said, though. I was corrupt long before I first met you." 

He felt a touch of the hand upon his chin; then his face was lifted and turned. Master Aeden looked upon him with eyes that made Layle's chest tight with the memory. 

"My dear," said his master gently, "you always had one great fault as a torturer: you were too hard on yourself. You let your conscience torture you more than you tortured any prisoner. Though I didn't approve of your decision to flee to the Eternal Dungeon, I hoped that there, at least, you would find a way to make peace with your dark desire." 

Layle turned his head away, staring into the shadow-black blood. "I did, after a fashion. When I first arrived at the Eternal Dungeon, I tried to rid myself of my dark desire. Even before I realized that I couldn't break that binding, I had found a way to keep my desire from harming others: I fed it with dreamings of the past and the imaginary, so that it wouldn't act in the real world." 

Master Aeden sighed. "You gave your desire stale food, when you might have remained in Vovim and fed it with a banquet." 

"Master, what a Seeker can do—" He realized that his voice had risen so loud that it was bouncing off the cavern walls. He lowered his voice. "I can't explain it; you would have to witness it to understand the joy. I am so indebted to the Code that any sacrifice I can make to it is small in comparison to what it has given me." 

"Mm." Master Aeden examined his fingernails for a moment before nibbling upon one. Layle saw him swallow the nail-shaving. "I begin to understand. You were always more pious than me, my dear – I prefer to wait to hear what the gods want of me rather than offer sacrifice beyond which they might demand. But I suppose that sort of waiting is difficult in a land where no god ever speaks his wishes. Well, you made your sacrifice to your new religion – but something went wrong. Your dark desire wasn't satisfied with what you fed it?" 

"For seventeen years it was." Layle brushed the blood-warm rocks with his fingers. "Then I met Elsdon Taylor." 

"Ah." Master Aeden's response was little more than a sigh. 

Layle turned to look at his master. "You spoke with Elsdon." 

Master Aeden gave one of his deep smiles. "We had the opportunity to chat during his torture, yes. A fine young man – if you're seeking my blessing, you have it. But I can see why he would have disturbed your equilibrium. He certainly disturbed mine." He ended on a dry note. 

Layle hesitated. This was not a matter he had spoken of to any person other than the Eternal Dungeon's healer; amidst all the dungeon gossip, Layle wished keenly to preserve the privacy of the bedroom he shared with Elsdon. But if anyone had served as a father during Layle's youth, it had been Master Aeden, and his master already knew half the story. 

As though sensing Layle's need to be prompted, Master Aeden said, "You found a way to make love to him." 

Layle nodded, returning his focus to the rocks. "He understood my difficulty and encouraged me to use my dreamings as a way to raise my desire with him. When we were together, I would dream my dark dreamings and would give him orders that corresponded in some way to what I was doing to him in the dreamings – orders that wouldn't hurt him in the real world." 

"Ah!" Master Aeden's delight at this news shone like a light in the cavern. He reached forward and squeezed Layle's hand. "Very clever, my dear. I wish I had thought to suggest this when you first struggled with your problem, back in your apprentice days. But I suppose it needed the right partner to be carried off properly. So your love-mate is a good play-actor?" 

Layle shook his head. "He doesn't play-act. He followed my orders, but he didn't know what play we were acting. I never told him at the time what my dreamings were about." 

_"What?"_ Master Aeden's voice was sharp as he pulled back. "My dear, what nonsense is this? I thought better than that of your young man." 

Layle tightened his fists and then swiftly loosened them, retreating from the instinct he always felt to torture anyone who attacked Elsdon. "Master, you don't understand. Tell me, when were you last at the theater?" 

"Why, just yesterday, my dear. You know I never miss a performance if my leisure hours permit it. We have quite a fine theater company here – though I'm bound to say that the directing lacks finesse. That's probably because our director is being hung in chains. He's not always as alert as we'd like him to be." 

Layle waited until the shudder had passed through his body and the heat had receded from his loins before saying, "The Yclau have no theater." 

A long silence followed. He supposed that Master Aeden was still absorbing this news, as he might have absorbed the news that the sun no longer existed. Then Master Aeden said, in the tentative voice of a man reaching a conclusion, "You're making mock." 

"I'm not. Oh, they have something they call theater. The director decides beforehand what speeches and activities will take place in the play, and then the players memorize their lines and movements, and when that's done, they perform their play." 

"Good Mercy above!" Master Aeden's voice resonated with shock. "I always knew they were barbarians. No one there does proper acting?" 

Layle shook his head. "Just the children. They play-act the Vovimian way, deciding first what their roles will be, and then playing out their parts as they are inspired. They have a game there, Torturer and Prisoner – you'd like it." 

Master Aeden chuckled. "I'll pass it by, thank you. Unlike you, torturing is my job, not my leisure. . . . Your love-mate grew up in Yclau. Surely, if he play-acted as a child . . ." 

Layle shook his head once more. "Master, it's not that simple. I'm sure Elsdon never played Torturer and Prisoner – he couldn't have. When he was a boy, he was bound and tortured by his father." 

For a moment, silence spread between them, like widening waters. Then Layle felt Master Aeden's hand cover his once more. "I see," his master said quietly. "I wondered why my simple act of binding him broke him so easily. . . . So he cannot play-act that he is being tortured." Layle shook his head, and Master Aeden sighed. 

"It seemed not to matter at first," Layle said. "We were happy together; we both thought we had found all we ever wanted." 

"Was my torture what destroyed the peace between you?" Master Aeden's voice was even as he withdrew his hand. 

"Elsdon has always thought so. Not that he dwells on your role in the matter – resentment isn't in his nature. But he thinks that I blamed myself overmuch for sending him to Vovim, and that this is what drove me into madness." 

"And that wasn't the reason?" Master Aeden's voice remained quiet. 

"Not the full reason. It played a part, but even before Elsdon left for Vovim . . . There had been trouble between us. Not in our souls, but in my body – I was finding it harder and harder to respond to him. And when he came back from Vovim . . . He knew that I would dream of his torture under you the first time we went to bed together again, yet he tried . . . We both tried. My failure was greater than his. I've never been sure why." 

Master Aeden sighed again. His breath rippled the sluggish water, sending waves travelling in the direction of the pool. "My dear, if I were to direct a company of two, and if I told one player, 'Perform this role for me,' and I told the other player, 'You are not to play-act – just follow my orders blindly' . . . How good a play do you think would result?" 

Layle pulled up his legs against his chest and rested his chin upon his knees. In a tight voice, he said, "You are saying we have not been in union with one another." 

"My dear, whatever your bodies may have been doing together, your minds have been in different places. And where the minds are disunited, the bodies cannot stay in union for long. If this were only a passing affair, and you were to seek other love-mates—" 

Layle shook his head quickly, and Master Aeden sighed again. "You've tried since the madness?" 

"To make love to Elsdon? No, that would be too dangerous; my control over myself has dwindled in the past three years. But Elsdon and I have tried to stay linked together when I enter into my dreamings, as we did in the days when we made love – it's the dungeon healer's best suggestion for how I can keep from being sucked into the madness again. It hasn't worked. It's what holds me back from working with prisoners again: the knowledge that I no longer have a way to feed my dark desire. If I try to stay linked with Elsdon, I fail; if I enter into a dreaming on my own, I risk being pulled back into madness. And if my dark desire is given no food and decides to feed upon the people around me . . ." 

Master Aeden let out his breath slowly, its sound almost obscured by the waterfall of blood. "My dear, out of all the men and women in the world, why did you choose to fall in love with the one man who cannot give you the type of love you need?" 

Layle felt a wry smile touch his lips. "I've asked Elsdon that question often enough. I don't know why he remains with me – I've tried to persuade him to leave me endless times. I tried to escape him through my madness, to free him so that he wouldn't be hurt by me any more. It didn't work; he came for me. He'll come for me again and spend his life searching for me." 

After a while, he turned his head to look at Master Aeden. His master said nothing; he was staring over the blood to the dark wall beyond. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but any sound he might have made was swallowed up by a roar as the ground broke free of its bindings and shook. 

Layle toppled over. He clutched the rocks, as though trying to hold the ground steady. All he could think through the deafening rumble was, _At least death comes here rather than to the Eternal Dungeon._

It was the nightmare that haunted every Seeker who knew the history of the Eternal Dungeon. The dungeon's predecessor had been destroyed a century before, when the cave it was housed in collapsed, killing most of the torturers and guards and prisoners. The remaining torturers and guards had used the calamity as an excuse to overturn the old system of searching prisoners and to create a new system, marked by the publication of the _Code of Seeking_. 

Then, with perhaps a little less forethought, they had housed themselves in another cave. Their new cave was said to be stronger than the first and unlikely to collapse, but Layle had not held as much confidence about this as his predecessors had. Every slight vibration in the Eternal Dungeon caused the hair on his skin to stand upright. 

And now the death he had feared had come, but at least it came only to him, and not to Elsdon and the other Seekers. Amidst the continued thunder of the earthquake, Layle closed his eyes and waited. 

And felt the rumbling subside. A moment later, a hand tugged at his arm. 

"Time for us to be going, my dear," Master Aeden said cheerfully. "That's the beginning of your shift. We can linger a while in the torturers' common cavern, but after that, we need to get you to your work." 

Layle pulled himself carefully to his feet. "That was a signal for a _shift_?" 

"Alas, yes." Master Aeden's voice turned weary. "I do wish the High Master would find a subtler way to indicate his desires. But I suppose it's to be expected. Watch your step, my dear – there's always a loose rock or two lying about at the beginning of shifts." 

Layle followed him back along the dark riverside, and then through the dim archway, and then stood motionless. The cavern with the pool had disappeared: Layle stood on the rim of a cylindrical cavern which rose so high that he could not see the ceiling above him. Beside him, Master Aeden was softly cursing. 

"I wish he would stop moving the caverns about like that," the older torturer grumbled. "Now I'll have to spend the rest of the day figuring out where my prisoners are." 

Layle said nothing. His gaze had dropped to what lay below him: the whorls of the cavern, plummeting endlessly like the hollow interior of an auger shell. The cylinder narrowed as it deepened; spiralling around its edges was a pathway. The upper portion of the path, where Layle stood, was open like a balcony, but not far beyond, the pathway grew darker and turned into a double row of small, windowless rooms – cells, Layle guessed. He could see tens of thousands of them, and he could see all that took place within them, for the ice ceilings that covered them were translucent. In each cell a prisoner lay, and in many of the cells were torturers as well, working with diligence. 

"Master," Layle said slowly, "this is hell." 

He looked up to see that Master Aeden was smiling at him. "Of course it is," said the man who had been his master. "You killed me, remember?"


	3. Chapter 3

The queue to the hot water fount was long; the journey back to the table was crowded. Layle kept being jostled on all sides, both by those who could not see that he was carrying a cup and by those who could. He tried looking coolly upon the people around him, and this was as effective with the torturers here as it had been with the inhabitants of the Eternal Dungeon. A path opened for him. 

One brawny fellow, though, met Layle's cool gaze with a cold stare of his own. He stood his ground and deliberately elbowed Layle as he passed. Some of the water from Layle's cup spilled upon the other torturer's sleeve. The man cursed and drew back his fist. 

Layle felt a rush of heat enter him, such as he had not felt since the early days of his apprenticehood, when custom required that he defend his place to the other apprentices by physical means. The trial had not lasted long, alas, and after that short but pleasurable period, Master Aeden had kept Layle well leashed with his discipline, as the master torturer would have leashed a dangerous dog. 

Layle's swift mind had already sped ahead to the moment when he cracked the aggressor's spine . . . and then just as swiftly sped back, reeled in by his conscience. Before he had the opportunity to form a second plan, though, someone grabbed his opponent's arm and whispered in his ear. Layle heard the words, "High Seeker," and then, "Hidden Dungeon," and then, as though reaching the culmination of this recital of his great deeds, "Fourteen murders. Started when he was twelve. Not to be trifled with." 

The aggressor raised his eyebrows in appreciation of this litany and stepped back. Layle glanced round at the remainder of the crowd, who looked disappointed, as though they had been hoping for a demonstration of Layle's powers. Layle ignored them and made his way over to the table where Master Aeden awaited him. The master torturer gave him a quick smile, as he had on the occasions in Layle's youth when his apprentice had resisted temptation, but he remained silent as Layle lifted the half-empty cup to his lips. 

It had almost reached its destination when his hand jerked. His other hand went up to touch his face, and then the back of his head. 

"What's wrong?" asked Master Aeden, raising his voice to be heard amidst the shouting nearby. 

"My hood. It's gone." He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, though his nakedness stung at him. He felt once more the eyes of the crowd, watching him, looking at his face. 

"I was wondering when you'd notice. You don't think they would have let you keep that, do you? It will have been taken from you during your searching. . . . A pity. I would have liked to have seen you in the full uniform of a Seeker." 

Layle said nothing as he sipped at the water, which was bitter with minerals. He had only the vaguest memory of the process by which he had entered this dungeon. There had been questions, he remembered now, and before that there had been travel . . . From Yclau? He remembered a raging battle, one that he had thought took place between the soldiers of Vovim and one of the kingdom's small neighbors – a battle that he initially believed had resulted in the shifting of borders, so that the foreign dungeon had fallen under Vovimian control. 

Now he suspected that there had only been two figures in that battle. And he was in the dwelling place of one of them. He wondered whether the battle had been lengthy, or whether Mercy had given up on him quickly. 

"Master Aeden?" The soft voice came from behind Layle. He turned his head to see that standing behind him was the young girl he had seen in the entry hall; her right arm was covered with drying blood. She reached over to the table and dropped an object there. "Thank you," she said. "I found mine." 

"You're quite welcome, my dear," said Master Aeden, pulling the blood-stained pincers over to his side of the table. "And did they come in handy?" 

"Oh, yes! I had her in torment all day!" The girl's face shone for a moment, and then dimmed somewhat as she added, "I hurt her too much. I nearly broke her." 

"Ah," said Master Aeden sympathetically. "And have you received your punishment for that?" 

She nodded and proudly displayed her bloody arm for the master torturer's inspection. He chuckled and patted her arm, saying, "Well, run along, my dear, and get some rest. It will be time for your next shift before you know it." 

The girl skipped away. Master Aeden's smile dropped the moment she left the table, but he waited until she was out of view before saying, "Vicious little wench. I'd hate to be one of her prisoners. She started with puppies when she was three; then, when she got bored with them, she began torturing babies. When she finally strangled her own baby brother, she was arrested. Because of her age, she was handed over to the specialists." He began picking at the pincer's dried blood with his fingernail. "I don't think she was one of mine. If I'd executed someone that young, I'm sure I'd remember." 

"Master," Layle said softly, "am I dead?" 

Master Aeden looked up from the pincers and grimaced. "If you are, my dear, then I'm very sorry. It hadn't occurred to me that you'd be pulled prematurely from life. I sent word to the High Master of your talents when news reached here from new-come prisoners that you had entered into madness. I had the notion that, if you were here, you might be rescued from your madness and given work that you enjoyed." 

Layle said, "If only I knew which it was this time – death or madness." 

Master Aeden chuckled. "Ah, yes, I'd forgotten how the Yclau look upon such matters. So I'm a creation of your imagination, am I?" 

Layle shook his head. "I haven't strayed that far from my roots." 

"Mm." Master Aeden picked more blood off his pincer before saying, "So either you're dead, and I'm really your old master, or you're in a dreaming, and I'm a divine messenger, sent to you in the guise of someone familiar in order to tell you something important. Frankly, I like the idea of being a divine messenger. It gives me a feeling of importance." 

"You wouldn't like to be a messenger of Mercy in the house of a rival god." 

Master Aeden chuckled again as he sipped at his own drink, a brown and yellow mixture that Layle had dared not ask him about. "That would be problematic, I agree. But as I am, in fact, merely a lowly servant of the High Master, I needn't worry about getting caught in the middle of divine rivalries. Perhaps you're the messenger?" He raised his eyebrows. "I can see that you would relish such a role." 

"Whether I'm dead, mad, or on a mission for Mercy, I need to find my way out of here," Layle responded, feeling his body tense. "Elsdon will come looking for me and no doubt place himself in danger again. Master, I need your help." 

"Oh?" Master Aeden sipped steadily from his cup. "And why is it that I should help you?" 

There was a long silence, which made no impact on the cacophony of voices from the men, women, and children around them, who were arguing in loud voices, or engaging in fist fights, or throwing objects at one another, or simply watching the spectacle with pleased grins. 

In the only peaceful corner of the common cavern, Layle felt the first signs of a shattering. A minute passed before he could find strength to say, "I thought you'd forgiven me." 

"I said I was no longer angry, my dear – anger is a wasteful emotion, as I told you long ago. But forgiveness is quite another matter. It is not easy to forgive someone you have trained and cared for and loved, and who offers his thanks for this service by arranging your death." 

Layle sat motionless for a moment. Then he pushed his cup carefully to the side and pushed back his chair. He was on the point of rising when Master Aeden's hand caught his wrist. 

"Sit," his master said sternly. Layle did, though only because his stomach was beginning to churn, so that it seemed safer to remain off his feet. Master Aeden did not remove his hand. His thumb began to stroke Layle's wrist as he said, "It was not easy to forgive you, but I tell you truly that when I first saw you earlier today, calling me master and turning to me as you had when you were a boy, it brought back all that had been good between us and drove out the bitterness I have felt since my death. So I ask your forgiveness in turn, for bringing you where you did not want to be. I trust you will recognize that my motive was as much loneliness as anything else." 

Layle glanced at the turmoil around the common cavern, and then turned back to his master, sitting peacefully with his hand still stroking Layle. "I always wondered about you," Layle said. "You could have been so much more than you were." 

His master nodded. "I thought about that early in my life, when I was first commanded to become an apprentice torturer for the King. I thought to myself, 'I can be what I've been till now, one of the lowest members of the higher order. Or I can join the lower order of mankind and be among the best of them.'" His hand slipped from Layle as he said reflectively, "I don't think Mercy was pleased with me for my choice. I suspect that's why she allowed the High Master to gain custody of me." 

"Then help me now," Layle said, leaning forward. "Help me to escape." 

A smile played upon Master Aeden's lips as he reached again for his drink. "My dear, say that a little louder. I'm not sure everyone in this cavern heard you." 

Layle looked around and caught the looks of several people who were listening avidly to this small spectacle. They turned their eyes away hastily as he gave them his cool gaze. 

Picking up his drink, Layle waited until his mouth was shielded from all prying eyes before he murmured, "I'm sorry. I've been living in Yclau, where the Queen trusts her torturers enough not to spy on them." 

Master Aeden set his cup aside and began work again at cleaning the pincers, scattering flecks of blood onto the slab of ice that served as a table. "I doubt that the High Master would go to the trouble of setting spies amidst us." 

Layle closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the weariness of ignorance sweep through him. "I've definitely been too long away from Vovim. I'd forgotten." 

He opened his eyes to see that Master Aeden was smiling at him. "That too, of course, but I tend not to worry overly much about such a possibility. There are quite a lot of torturers here, and the chances of our meeting that particular one . . . Well, the odds are small. No, I was thinking of other means of communication with the High Master. Look around us – what do you see?" 

Layle glanced at the turbulence and replied, "Fights . . . More fights . . . Gossip." 

"You always hated gossip," Master Aeden said approvingly. "I'm afraid that's the main pastime here. The High Master permits us our theater, but other than that, we possess few ways to fill our leisure hours. Mind you, gossip takes a while to reach the High Master – it has to go through several committees first. But some time later today, he will hear that you asked me to help you to escape, and if you should by that time be missing . . ." Master Aeden shrugged. 

"Then come with me." Layle kept the cup pressed against his lips, and his voice low. "If you know a way out of here, we could both take it." 

"You offered me that choice once before." Master Aeden's smile returned. "My answer is the same this time as it was two decades ago. I know of no way out, and even if I did, I wouldn't take it. My dear, look again around you. Do you see anyone here who looks to you to be innocent of grave crimes?" 

Layle did not have to look; he shook his head. Despite popular belief, his inbuilt instinct for judging the guilt of his prisoners was not infallible, but it was highly skillful. It had warned him since his arrival in this dungeon that he was among dangerous people. Every gesture, every remark, every look in the eyes, told tales too dark for him to speak aloud. 

He put down his cup. "I can see why this place would suit you. Your conscience need no longer bother you." 

"Of course." Master Aeden raised his eyebrows. "I'm doing work for the High Master – I may not be as pious as you, but that means something to me. I am punishing the wicked for their ill deeds. We don't receive petty riff-raff here, Layle. Everyone who arrives here committed terrible crimes." 

"Like myself," Layle said quietly. 

"Or myself. Come, my dear, I know that this isn't the workplace you would have chosen – but now that you're here, can't you reconcile yourself to serving divinity?" 

Layle shook his head. "Mercy, perhaps. But the High Master you serve . . . I cannot work in a dungeon without a Code." 

"Ah." Master Aeden nodded. "I thought it came down to that. There lies your true god, and you will not forsake him for a foreign god. Well, my dear, there is nothing that can be done about that." 

"Isn't there?" Layle was careful to shield his lips with his cup before speaking. 

Master Aeden merely snorted, though. "Can you see the group in this cavern rebelling against the High Master who gives them such delightful work?" 

"Rebellions usually come from those who believe themselves to be oppressed." Layle did not bother to shield his mouth as he made this commonplace remark. He had done nothing more than voice the perennial fear of every prison worker. 

Master Aeden chuckled and rose to his feet. "Come," he said. 

Curious stares accompanied Layle as he and Master Aeden left the common cavern, but no one followed them out onto the spiral balcony that turned and whirled until it became a pathway filled with ice-cells. Further down, under the translucent ceilings of corridors, torturers walked to and fro between the ice-cells, but here in the balcony above the place of torture, the walkway was empty except for the master torturer and his former apprentice. 

Master Aeden leaned his forearms upon the bar of white ice that served as a balcony railing. The chill wind blew back the hair from his face, revealing the face of kind cruelty that Layle remembered from his youth. He supposed that people must see something similar when they looked at himself, though in his better moments he liked to think that what he dispensed was hard kindness. He followed his master's gaze to the ice-cell directly below them, which could be easily seen as the pit narrowed and the circling pathway tightened its coil. 

It was a larger cell than the others, filled with dozens of men and women and children. None of them were bound or appeared to be undergoing torture. The only sign that they were prisoners were the armed guards watching them. 

The prisoners did not watch the guards; they were busy trying to maim one another. 

Layle had to turn his gaze away momentarily before he was able to regain control. Then, placing his will under the mastery that had become ingrained in him, he turned his eyes back and watched with professional detachment as an old man sought desperately to fend off the fists of a young man who had attacked him. Nearby, two girls of maiden age were pulling at each other's hair and kicking each other's shins. Their screams of rage rose to where Layle stood. 

"Watch that one," Master Aeden said, pointing to a man wearing bright red. "I've had my eye on him for days – he has won every duel he was waged." 

A man wearing green, who had been lounging in the corner as he scrutinized the proceedings with narrowed eyes, came forward and said something to the man in red. He smiled as he spoke. The man in red immediately slammed his fist forward, but the man in green laughed and caught the other man's arm. There was a moment of struggle as the man in red sought to break free. Then, clear through the air, came the sound of a bone breaking. 

The man in red fell to his knees, whimpering, as the fighting around him paused momentarily, everyone turning to see this change in hierarchy. The man in green smiled down at his defeated opponent. 

Then the guards were there, pushing everyone aside. They took hold of the man in red, hauling him to his feet. His arms were bound behind his back, and the guards pulled him from the room as he sobbed. 

The other man was removed too, but in a more subtle manner. One of the guards spoke to the man in green at length. He nodded and then strode toward the door and walked out of the ice-cell, unchallenged by any of the guards at the door. As he left, the other prisoners drew back from him silently. 

"The victor becomes a torturer," Master Aeden said softly. "The loser remains a prisoner. The loser will be tortured forever. The victor will be his torturer." 

Layle turned his head to look at his master. Master Aeden's smile had disappeared as though it had never known the dwelling place of his face. 

"How long were you in that holding cell?" Layle asked. 

"Long enough that I don't like to think about it." Master Aeden's voice remained soft. Then he shook himself, as though releasing himself from the bonds of memory. "There are your revolutionaries, my dear. Every one of them holds the ambition to become a torturer. If you led them in a rebellion against their torturers, their only goal would be to take over the jobs of their tormenters." 

Layle said nothing. He was watching the progress of the red-clothed man as he began to struggle to break free from the guards. The man bit into the arm of one of the guards; as he raised his face, mouth red with blood, Layle caught a glimpse of his furious, deadly eyes. 

"You've been too long away from hardened prisoners, my dear," Master Aeden said, patting his hand. 

"Not so long as that. Most of the prisoners we receive at the Eternal Dungeon are like that. When they arrive." 

Master Aeden's hand stiffened upon his. "And when they leave?" 

Layle looked over at his master. "I sent you a book several years ago. Did it reach you?" 

Master Aeden's smile returned as though it had never left. He reached behind his back, tucked up his shirt, and pulled an object out from its hiding place. Carefully, he laid on the balcony railing a black-bound volume with gold letters stamped upon its face. 

Layle gazed down at it, not speaking. His throat had closed tight. Master Aeden said quietly, "It was kind of you to translate it into Vovimian, my dear. Yes, I've read it – many times. I've often thought that you have the skills of an artist, to portray an idealistic world that will never exist." 

Layle said finally, "You were able to smuggle this into hell?" 

"I had it on my person when I died. I never left it in my cell at the Hidden Dungeon – that wouldn't have been wise." 

Layle nodded. This book was contraband material in Vovim, and the torturers' living cells were searched every few months. Master Aeden fingered the soft leather of the binding before adding, "It was discovered upon me when I was searched, of course, and was taken from me. A few weeks after my arrival, it was returned to me, with an accompanying message from the High Master that he had found it to be amusing reading. He suggested that I turn it into a comedy for one of our theater productions." 

Layle stared down at the holding cell, watching the prisoners there as he had watched the prisoners entering the Eternal Dungeon. That girl, pulling the hair of her opponent – yes, even without having seen her records, he guessed how she could be dealt with. . . . 

"My dear," Master Aeden said mildly, "when you are quiet for so long, I begin to worry. What are you plotting?" 

"A play," said Layle, "such as this place has never seen." 

Time held still for a breath's space. Then: "Ah." Master Aeden placed the pincers atop the book to prevent the volume from being swept off the balcony by the wind. "My dear, I hate to pull down your stagework before you have begun, but there are certain rules here, and those rules are enforced. You will not be permitted to break your prisoners, either through physical pain or through mental pain." 

"I have no intention of breaking my prisoner. Nonetheless, when I am through, he will be broken." He turned his eyes toward Master Aeden. "You told me that the conditions of my work required me to remain here until I was finished with my prisoner. Is that right?" 

He saw a flicker in Master Aeden's expression. He was not surprised; his master had read the black-bound volume. 

"And what would you like me to do?" his master asked quietly. 

Layle let out his breath, which he had been holding. "Answer questions. That's all. If the other torturers have questions, will you tell them the answers?" 

"My dear, if the other torturers have questions about your work, they'll be flocking to me for answers. I'd be glad to enlighten them. _If_ you can prove to all of us that this book has any truth to it." His hand rested lightly upon the _Code of Seeking_. 

"You ought to know that it does," Layle said softly. "I was a murderer when you met me." 

The wind whistled hollowly through the pit; shards of flying frost bit at Layle's skin. Master Aeden said nothing, but his grip tightened on the book. A rumble rose, like far-off thunder. 

Layle had time only to see that Master Aeden was still holding the volume. Then the ground gave way under him, and he was sliding off the icy path into the void of the pit. 

A yank upon his belt jerked the breath out of him. He felt himself hauled back onto the pathway; then he lay panting as the quivering ground settled down. Below him, the pincers that had been lying upon the book spun endlessly downward into the pit. Above him, Master Aeden was cursing. 

"He must be in a foul mood today. He doesn't usually do that between shifts." He helped Layle to his feet and said, "I'm sorry, my dear. I wouldn't have taken you onto the balcony if I'd known that would happen. I think that's a sign we should get you to your workplace, so that you can start with your prisoner." He released Layle and softly brushed hoarfrost from the black-bound volume, still secure in his hand. 

Layle turned his head, alerted by voices. Nearby, at the doorway to the common cavern, torturers were pouring out, evidently taking the earthquake as a signal that the High Master was displeased with them for their idleness. A few of them scurried down the pathway toward the ice-cells, but most of them lingered on the balcony, watching Layle out of the corner of their eyes. 

"My audience has arrived," Layle murmured. 

"And the play begins," Master Aeden replied, yet more softly. "Layle, you will have to torture the prisoner. You won't be excused from that duty." 

Layle recognized the urgent warning in his master's voice and nodded. "Prisoners such as arrive here won't proceed far before they need torture as discipline. Don't worry, I won't disappoint the High Master in that respect." He moved his gaze away from the curious spectators and asked, "May I see my prisoner before the prisoner sees me?" 

"Certainly." There was an odd note in Master Aeden's voice: a challenging tone, such as he had used on the occasions when he assigned a particularly difficult prisoner to Layle. "He's right over there, my dear. He has been told that you're coming." 

Layle followed the line of Master Aeden's finger. The prisoner was not hard to sight; he was in the highest of the ice-cells, huddled in a corner with his arms wrapped around his legs. His head was bowed, but as Layle watched, the prisoner raised his head and dropped it back against the wall. Tears shone like frost upon his face. 

"No." The word was so hoarse that Layle did not recognize for a moment his own voice. "No." 

Master Aeden shrugged. "Well, my dear, I did warn you that you were considered to be the only appropriate person to handle him." 

Layle said nothing. He felt himself shiver under the chill wind, while in the ice-cell below, Elsdon Taylor awaited the arrival of his torturer.


	4. Chapter 4

"Now, don't you worry, my dear," said his master as they made their way carefully down the ice-stairs leading to the cells. "I know that your tastes have altered somewhat since you were my apprentice. No one here will expect you to place your prisoner in the sort of agony he would have endured in our old workplace – it wouldn't be permitted in any case. Just a little light pain over an eternal period, enough to provide justice for the crimes the prisoner committed." 

"Master," Layle said in a tight voice, "this is madness. I can't torture my own love-mate." 

Master Aeden looked upon him with bemusement as he trotted steadily down the slick steps. "I was under the impression that you'd done so already." 

"Only when he came as a prisoner to the Eternal Dungeon. He'd committed a crime and had to be brought to the point of breaking so that he could start his new life. I wouldn't even have used torture to help with the breaking if I'd realized his background with his father. This time . . . Elsdon has done nothing to warrant being brought to this place, and none of the prisoners here, least of all Elsdon, should be placed in eternal punishment." 

Master Aeden gave a soft laugh. "Religious disputes bore me, I'm afraid. —The High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon is here to see his new prisoner." These words were spoken to a group of guards armed with naked swords, who were guarding the narrow archway at the bottom of the steps. 

The evident leader of the guards – a tough-looking youth with scars across his face and bare arms – nodded and said something in the old tongue of Vovim to the other guards. They immediately obeyed him, drawing back to allow the torturers through. Eyeing the guards as he walked past, Layle decided that they had heard some of the many scare-tales that circulated about him. Hardened a lot though the guards were, they kept well back and viewed him with cautious gazes. 

"Master," Layle said as soon as he was out of the hearing of the guards, "how could Elsdon have come here anyway? He's full-blooded Yclau." 

His master shrugged. "His tie to you brought him here? I don't know, my dear; all I know is that he turned up with a new shipment of prisoners around the time we heard that you'd be coming here. As soon as I learned he was here, I made sure you were assigned to him. —Here we are, Cell 43,516. Do you have the key?" 

Layle took the key from his pocket and handed it to his master in an automatic manner. They were in a dim corridor now, much like the one he had travelled through upon his arrival at hell, except that this one's ceiling consisted of the translucent ice he had seen from the balcony. He caught hold of Master Aeden's hand as his master was leaning toward the door. "I cannot do this," Layle said firmly. "I cannot bring unnecessary pain to Elsdon." 

Master Aeden sighed as he straightened up. "Then you wish me to have another prisoner assigned to you? That will mean another torturer for Elsdon, you know." 

Somewhere further down the corridor, water dripped upon the ice floor, creating a bell-like tone that broke the faint groans in the cells nearby. Frost crackled under the feet of the guards shifting in their place at the entrance to the ice-cells. 

Layle said, "Give me the key." 

Master Aeden offered one of his sad smiles as he handed Layle the key with one hand, while patting him on the shoulder with the other. "You'll have to do without a guard, I'm afraid – you're not senior enough to qualify for one. However, you may ask the guards at the entrance here for any equipment you need." He took a step back. 

"You're headed to sleep?" Layle asked with his inherent courtesy, which had never disappeared, even during the apprentice years when he routinely strangled his prisoners. 

"Oh, sleep isn't permitted here. Ordinarily, I'd go over to the common cavern to chat with the other torturers about how their work is going, but . . . Well, I gather that everyone who's not on duty is on the balcony today. I think I'll join them. I'm interested in seeing your techniques." He gave a broader smile and left Layle in the frigid corridor, with dim light streaming down through the ice above. 

Layle looked up. He was so close to the balcony that he could see clearly the torturers standing above. All of them had their heads turned toward him. He suddenly felt himself seized by a sensation he had not felt since his boyhood. 

"Play-acting fright," he muttered. "That's the last thing I need." He leaned forward and placed the key in the lock. 

The door opened easily, despite the frost crusted upon its hinges. He entered the cell quietly, shutting the door behind him. Elsdon was still huddled in the corner of the cell, his body pressed against the ice that varnished the rock walls. Layle had difficulty seeing him, for though light made its way through the icy ceiling, the rocks here were so heavily laden with ice that the phosphorescence from them was blocked. 

Elsdon's sobs stopped abruptly; he stiffened, raising his head. For a moment he simply stared toward the doorway. Then he stood up slowly and waited, his back hard against the icy wall, his face set in expectation of pain. 

Layle felt his own body respond in kind, as though he had been abruptly pushed up five levels on the rack. "Elsdon," he whispered. 

"Layle!" The junior Seeker's face transformed immediately from fear to joy. He flung himself across the small space of the cell, into Layle's arms. "Oh, you're here, you're here . . ." 

He was sobbing again, his face pressed against Layle's shoulder. Layle put his arms lightly around his love-mate. "Shh. It's all right, Elsdon, there's nothing to be afraid of. I won't hurt you." 

Elsdon gulped in air and sobs, saying, "Layle, I thought you weren't coming! I had to wait so long; I was sure I'd lost you forever—" 

"I'm sorry I made you wait," he said softly, feeling the pain in his body heal with every word Elsdon spoke. He pulled back from Elsdon and wiped dry with his thumb his fellow Seeker's cheeks. "Elsdon, what are you doing in this place? How could you end up at hell?" 

Elsdon stared at him blankly. He was beginning to emerge from youth into full manhood, the delicate lines of his younger years transforming into something no less beautiful, but less soft. At the moment, though, he looked very young, his eyes wide with lack of understanding. 

"Elsdon." Layle took firm hold of his shoulders. "They did tell you where we are, didn't they?" 

Elsdon took several gulps of air, as though finding it hard to breathe, and stared down toward his toes. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "That is, I wasn't sure— I'm finding it hard to imagine—" 

"I know," Layle said quietly. "It was a shock for me as well. Remember that etching I once told you about, of the ice-cells of hell as imagined by one of the old artists? To find myself inside one of those cells . . ." 

Elsdon peered cautiously up, saying in the same hesitant voice as before, "If . . . if you could tell me what this place looks like . . ." 

Layle felt himself go rigid. "You don't know? Elsdon . . ." His fingers went up toward the gaze staring blankly at him, and he whispered, "Elsdon, have they blinded you?" 

Elsdon stared at Layle a moment more; then, abruptly, he began to laugh in a hysterical manner. Layle cradled the other Seeker into his arms again, struggling to hold back his own tears now. "Shh, be still, my dear. It's all right. Whatever pain they've put you through, it's over now." 

He could feel Elsdon trembling in his effort to control himself. "No . . . No, Layle, I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean to . . . Oh, bloody blades, do you have a handkerchief?" 

Layle quickly fished the cloth out of his pocket, grateful that he had been sent to this place wearing his old uniform. A handkerchief was part of the standard uniform for a Seeker, for sooner or later, most prisoners in the Eternal Dungeon reached the point of crying. 

Elsdon wiped his eyes and nose, his hysteria lessening as he did so. "I don't know why I did that," he said finally, looking up. "It was stupid of me; I thought I was better prepared. . . . Layle, I swear, they haven't hurt me in the least. They wouldn't dare – I told them I was your love-mate, and they've all heard of you." 

"But you can't see the cell?" 

"Well, it's dark in here," Elsdon said in a matter-of-fact manner. "My night-vision has never been as good as yours." 

Layle felt his breath travel in swiftly. "So when I walked in here, you didn't realize it was me? It wasn't me you were afraid of?" 

Elsdon stared at him once more. "Afraid of _you_? Layle, have you gone mad again? How could I be afraid of you?" 

Layle closed his eyes and bowed his head, feeling, as he had so many times before, the heavy burden of Elsdon's perfect trust in him. In the darkness beyond his vision, Elsdon was saying, "No, I didn't know it was you. I thought it was— Layle!" 

Elsdon's sudden, hard grip caused Layle to open his eyes. "What is it?" he asked. 

"Layle, we have to leave here! They told me that they would be sending a torturer here – we must find a way to escape before the torturer arrives and begins punishing us!" 

Layle shivered, his first reminder of the frosty chill of this cell. He could not speak for a moment. Elsdon, who could read him too well, put his hand up to Layle's cheek and said quietly, "What is it, love? Do you know something?" 

"Elsdon—" His voice broke, and he had to start again. "Elsdon, I was brought to this place for a consultation." 

For a moment more, Elsdon's hand touched his cheek. Then the hand dropped, and his love-mate's gaze dropped as well. "I see," said Elsdon in a level voice. 

"Elsdon, I'm sorry," he whispered. 

Elsdon's hands reached forward and grasped Layle's; he raised his eyes. He no longer seemed young. His expression was that of a Seeker, preparing himself calmly for a difficult searching. "I'm glad, Layle. If it has to be someone, I want it to be you. At least I can be happy that you'll receive pleasure from this." 

Layle felt his hands tighten upon Elsdon's hands, and he quickly released them. His love-mate was doing an admirable job of refraining from hysterics; he must try to match Elsdon in self-control. "My dear, no," he said quietly. "That's not why I'm here. I would never cause you unnecessary pain—" 

"But it's necessary in this case," Elsdon replied, still calm. "If you don't torture me, someone else will. Layle, it will be much easier for me if you're the one to do it." 

Layle was silent. The groans in the other cell had faded from his consciousness. All he could hear was the slow drip of water in this cell, like a water-clock. Finally he said, "Come sit down, my dear, and tell me what's been happening to you." 

o—o—o

Elsdon's tale was not long. He had been questioned upon his arrival, not by the record-keeper, but by a group of torturers trying to determine which of them should be assigned him. When he told his name, one of the torturers laughed and said, "You have the same name as the love-mate of the High Seeker of the Eternal Dungeon." 

"I _am_ the High Seeker's love-mate," said Elsdon, with such firmness that the torturer's laughter stopped abruptly. His questioner looked round at the others. 

"I'm not touching him," said one of the torturers. 

"Nor I," said another. "Layle Smith took revenge on the last man who tortured his love-mate." 

"Put him in the holding cell," suggested a third. 

Elsdon, taking one look at conditions in the holding cell, did not hesitate to invoke Layle's name as protection. He was not harmed by the other prisoners, though he quickly learned that the Yclau were much hated in this place. 

"You Yclau have a secret," said a sneering, whining man who was, as it turned out, destined to remain a prisoner rather than become a torturer. 

"What do you mean?" asked Elsdon. 

"You have a secret for keeping out of this place. The Yclau are never sent here – never. You've found a way of keeping the guilty from being punished eternally." 

"Of course we have," said Elsdon. "Everyone is reborn, both the guilty and the innocent." 

"Reborn?" cried a woman nearby, who had been trying to decide whether to bash her young daughter's head into the wall in order to impress the torturers. "I've never heard of that." 

Elsdon soon had a crowd of prisoners around him, listening open-mouthed to his tale of Yclau beliefs about afterdeath. Even some of the guards wandered up to listen. 

"So _that's_ where the innocent go," said one of the prisoners. "I always wondered." 

"But you say that the Yclau guilty are reborn as well," said another prisoner. 

Elsdon nodded. "Eventually. If someone who has done evil has not yet regretted his misdeeds at the time of his death, he is held in death for a while – I suppose in a holding cell like this. Eventually, though, he breaks, and once he has broken, he's reborn into a better life. The Seekers try to assist the prisoners who are likely to be executed for their crimes by helping them to break before their death, so that there won't be any delay before the prisoners' rebirth." 

"But that never happens here!" said a young boy who had been pummelling a weaker boy a moment before. 

"Of course not," said an old woman. "It's obvious why it doesn't, isn't it?" She turned to glare at one of the torturers who had entered the cell to remove some of the prisoners. The other prisoners and guards gave each other knowing looks but said nothing. 

Having learned where he was, Elsdon asked one of the guards whether Layle was here as well. He could think of no explanation for his presence at this Vovimian hell except that he and Layle had died at the same moment – perhaps from an underground cave-in occurring in the Eternal Dungeon – and that his love for Layle had kept him tied to the High Seeker, even in afterdeath. If Layle was anywhere in this vast holding cell, Elsdon must find his love-mate. 

The answer came back eventually that Layle was not here but that he was on his way. Soon afterwards, Elsdon was taken from the holding cell and brought to one of the ice-cells. Here, he was told, he must await his torturer. 

o—o—o

"A dreaming? That's what you think this is?" 

They were sitting huddled in the corner now, Elsdon resting within the warmth of Layle's arms as Layle absentmindedly dropped kisses onto the back of Elsdon's neck. Layle lifted his head to say, "I can't be sure. But it would explain why you came with me. You and I had been making efforts to stay connected to each other when I entered into my dreamings." 

"Only this dreaming is real," Elsdon said quietly. He was as calm as Layle had ever seen him: his breath steady, his body relaxed. Layle was quite sure this was not because Elsdon had forgotten their earlier conversation. 

"I can't be sure of that either," Layle said. "But this is unlike any dreaming I've had before; never before have you spoken to me in the dreamings as you really are. In all my previous dreamings, you were a mixture of reality and my memory of other people and a goodly dose of my own imaginings." 

"Oh, I'm real," said Elsdon, with a chuckle. "At least, this cramp in my foot is real. Layle, could we shift a bit?" 

They did so as Layle thought to himself that the soft ping of the water dripping in the cell sounded very real too. It was an irritant to him, reminding him of passing time. The observers on the balcony must be growing impatient; sooner or later, word would be sent to the High Master that the new torturer was neglecting his duty. 

"I hope this is real," said Elsdon. "Because if it isn't, quite honestly I don't see how we're going to escape." 

"I know," Layle said softly. "Last time, the only way I was able to escape when my dreamings trapped me was with your help. This time . . ." 

"This time we'll assume this is really hell and that we can find a way out of here. So what do we do to escape?" 

Layle felt himself tense. Elsdon immediately twisted in his arms, looking back as though he could see Layle. "What is it? Do you have a plan already?" 

"I had half a plan when I arrived here," Layle said slowly, "and I think you've given me the second half. Elsdon, you're a Seeker. You must have guessed by now why no one is reborn here." 

"Of course." Elsdon's voice was matter-of-fact. "The level of torture is too low. The prisoners are never permitted to reach a high enough level of pain to begin breaking beyond the hard wall of their ignorance, so that their minds are open to new ideas and they can come to accept their guilt and repent of their misdeeds." 

"Torture isn't the only way to bring the breaking," Layle said. "Often it's not even the best way; conversation with one's Seeker is far better. But here . . . If any of the prisoners here have a chance of breaking, it's through pain so great that they begin to question their most fundamental beliefs." 

"But they're never permitted to break." 

"The rule here," Layle said carefully, "is that a torturer must not break a prisoner, either through physical pain or through mental pain." 

Elsdon waited. Then, when Layle said no more, he burst out, "Sweet blood, Layle! Don't they realize what the third possibility is for breaking?" 

"Apparently not," Layle replied. "The High Master certainly doesn't know – he wouldn't have left that possibility open if he'd been able to see it." He hesitated, and then decided to word his next sentence carefully. If Elsdon knew that his old torturer was in this dungeon, it might frighten him needlessly. "I've spoken privately with a torturer here – one of the better ones, a man of conscience. He was able to understand what the Seekers try to do. But he's skeptical as to whether such a transformation can take place." 

"I can't believe that such a transformation has never taken place in Vovim. Your old master, for example – he's someone I could imagine creating the sort of conditions that would allow a prisoner to break himself." 

Elsdon's body was relaxed as he spoke. Layle reflected to himself, not for the first time, that Elsdon's strength went far beyond what anyone might imagine. He kissed Elsdon's hair – the other Seeker had been stripped of his hood also – before saying, "Oh, he can do it. He did it with me. He allowed me the opportunity to turn myself from an abusive torturer who murdered his victims into an abusive torturer who executed his victims upon the King's orders. It was a small change, but it helped ready me for my greater transformation into a Seeker. Vovimian torturers don't lack ability, Elsdon – they simply lack vision." 

"But we know better," Elsdon said with the smallest hint of smugness. 

Layle smiled at this proof that his love-mate could still speak with youthful imperfection. "We do – and that's our advantage here. My dear, the conditions of my work require that I remain here until I am finished with my prisoner." 

The tension came finally, instantly; Layle had expected that. Elsdon was too quick-witted not to understand what he was suggesting. Layle waited, and after a long while, Elsdon said breathlessly, "I wish I was back home, where the worst I had to fear was that I'd lose my argument with you over whether you should help me with my new prisoner." 

Layle hesitated a moment before deciding to give Elsdon the time he needed to consider whether to consent. "Elsdon, you're a Seeker. You're qualified to break prisoners on your own." 

"Not this one. I told you, Layle – his medical records show that he's delusional. Not delusional enough to be placed in a home for mental healing, but criminal delusional. He's convinced that his strange worldview is the only way of seeing things." 

"And so," Layle said calmly, "you want a delusional Seeker to search him." 

"You understand what it's like to live in a world of dreamings, Layle. You understand it better than any other Seeker. You could help my prisoner in a way that no other Seeker could." 

"I could help him, or I could destroy him." Layle sighed as he held Elsdon closer. "My dear, you know I can't come near prisoners yet. Not as long as my dark desire remains unfed. Not as long as it remains unchained." 

Elsdon sighed in turn, shifting in Layle's arms for a more comfortable position. "Love, you always talk about your desire as though it were your prisoner, or you were its prisoner. Yet if it's your prisoner, you treat it with a hatred you've never shown toward any prisoner in the Eternal Dungeon. And if you're its prisoner . . . You know what possibilities that offers you." 

Layle nuzzled at Elsdon's hair for a minute before saying quietly, "That's all far away, my dear. Here we face the same question: You know what possibilities are offered to you." 

"Yes." He heard Elsdon swallow. "Of course I'll do it, Layle. It's the only way in which to help you escape." 

"To help _you_ escape. I wouldn't leave you here in the dungeon. I've been promised my release if I finish with you – a promise the High Master has no intention of fulfilling, since he believes that the rules here will keep me from breaking you. But if you break yourself, under my guidance, then I will remind him of his promise. As for you . . . I will remind him that you are reborn. The reborn have no place at hell." 

Elsdon gave a shaky laugh. "Let's just hope that his vision extends that far. Layle . . . I've been reborn once already, when I first came to the Eternal Dungeon. Can I be reborn a second time? And can I break in a dramatic enough fashion to convince the High Master to let us go?" 

"I believe I know a way," Layle murmured. "Let your Seeker worry about that, Mr. Taylor." 

Elsdon gave another laugh, this one more easy. "All right, I'll let you be my guide once more. But it's hard to think of you as a Seeker, Mr. Smith – you're acting in a most unSeekerly fashion at the moment." 

Layle kissed his ear lightly. "There's a reason for that. We're being watched." 

"Oh?" Elsdon sounded unconcerned. "And listened to as well?" 

"No, our audience is on a balcony high above us. Look up, and you may see them." 

Elsdon tilted his face up cautiously, then shook his head. "My night-vision is too poor – all I can see is a white blur. Is everyone from hell up there?" 

"A significant number of torturers are. And I understand that the gossip here flies quickly." 

Layle's voice was so sour that Elsdon laughed. "Poor High Seeker," he said. "You can never escape prying eyes. So this is how you will let the High Master know of your new method of breaking? By holding a demonstration in public? I'm not sure how anyone will be able to tell what you're doing, if they can't hear what you're saying to me." 

"It won't be a demonstration of that sort." Layle looked at the audience above. Some of the onlookers were shifting their feet, but nobody appeared bored yet; it seemed they had all guessed that what they were witnessing was part of the drama. Quite a few of them looked interested, as well they might. This was not, Layle guessed, the normal manner in which torturers at hell proceeded. 

"Mr. Taylor, did you ever play Torturer and Prisoner when you were young?" 

Elsdon started in his arms, as though he had been touched by a jolt of lightning. "Layle, how _could_ I?" 

"Address me formally, my dear – it will be easier for both of us if you do." Layle kept his voice soft. "You didn't play Torturer and Prisoner, but you witnessed it being played?" 

"Sometimes. When I could bear it. I . . . Sir, I don't want to think about it." 

It was hard for Layle to continue speaking; he had to draw upon all of his professional knowledge of when to drive a pain-ridden prisoner into further pain. And this required in turn that he draw upon his dark desire, which was dangerous. 

Even before he spoke, he could feel Elsdon shifting in his arms, aware of the change that had taken place in Layle's body. For a moment, Layle thought that his love-mate would flee from his arms. Then Elsdon settled back, his trust once more driving him to place his life and soul in the hands of a man whose dark past gave no reason for trust. 

Layle paused a moment to push back his desire. It had served its purpose of making Elsdon squirm visibly in his arms, but now it was the last thing he wanted present. He was pleased to find himself successful. At least for the moment. 

"I need you to think on that, Mr. Taylor," Layle whispered into Elsdon's ear. He could feel the effects of that whisper enter Elsdon as a shiver. "Remember what the torturer did. Did he know beforehand what he was going to say or do?" 

Elsdon's voice was tight when he replied. "Not entirely. The boys would discuss beforehand what the general setting for the tale would be – who the prisoner was, and why he was brought to the Eternal Dungeon. But after that, the boy who was hooded – the torturer – would ask whatever questions he wanted, and the boy who was the prisoner would answer them. And if the torturer didn't like the prisoner's answers—" His voice ended in a shudder. 

His whole body was shaking now. "That's enough!" Layle said sharply. "Withdraw. Come back to me." 

He could feel the strain in his prisoner's muscles as Elsdon strove to obey the command to return out of the memories of his terrible childhood. Layle kissed Elsdon's neck to help him along, and then stole a glance upwards. The expressions on the onlookers' faces told him that the nature of this exchange had been witnessed, if not understood. The onlookers seemed puzzled, even downright bewildered. It was clear that none of them before had ever witnessed a session of torture that was accompanied by love. 

He hoped that they did not draw the conclusion that his signs of love were a false mask he had donned in order to harm the prisoner. He had done that often enough in his youth. But when he glanced up again, he saw that a small crowd had begun to gather around Master Aeden, and that his master was steadily addressing the crowd. 

So all depended now on whether Master Aeden would tell them the truth, which was that Layle truly loved the man he had just tortured. With that knowledge, the third scene of the play would end. 

o—o—o

It was a long while before Elsdon's shaking stopped. Layle communicated with him only through kisses during that time. He dared not rush Elsdon's recovery, not only because the roots of Elsdon's pain lay so deep, but also because this was the beginning of the fourth scene. All of the comfort he was offering Elsdon during this time would be witnessed, and with luck it would be questioned. 

Finally Elsdon's body had calmed enough that the junior Seeker was able to say in a taut voice, "I'm sorry, sir." 

"Elsdon," Layle murmured, "it's over. You may call me by my name." 

"Layle. Why—? I'm sorry; I know you had a reason. I shouldn't ask." 

"I had two reasons." Layle tilted Elsdon's head back onto his shoulder so that he could see his love-mate's face. It was flushed, but otherwise showed no sign of pain. He traced his finger down Elsdon's nose, causing the other man to smile. "Do you remember my telling you about the Vovimian theater?" 

"Yes, of course. But why—? Oh, I see." Elsdon's voice grew thoughtful. "The games the boys play in Yclau. You told me once that was a form of play-acting. But love, if you wanted to talk to me about Vovimian acting, couldn't you have just—? I mean, was it necessary to—?" 

"Yes." He dropped a kiss onto Elsdon's nose. "My dear, I would not have done that if it weren't necessary." 

Elsdon gave a small smile then. "Stupid. I'm being stupid. Of course you wouldn't have. What is it about the Vovimian theater that I need to know?" 

"That which you just spoke of, the method of acting. Elsdon, what are the stages of transformation?" 

Elsdon furrowed his brow, but did not ask why this leap of topic had occurred. "For what type of prisoner?" he asked. "A prisoner who is innocent? A guilty prisoner who confesses at once? A guilty prisoner who refuses to confess but is cooperative? Or a guilty prisoner who refuses to confess or cooperate?" 

"The most common one, the guilty prisoner who cooperates but does not confess. What are his stages of transformation?" 

Elsdon gave an incredulous laugh. "You want me to recite them? As though I were a Seeker-in-Training?" 

"Please." He had to stop himself from looking up to see whether Master Aeden was in the midst of reciting the stages in his translation of the drama. Layle guessed that he was; he needed to give his master time to complete his recital. 

Elsdon raised an eyebrow, but said without hesitation, "There are five stages. The first stage is one that all prisoners go through, Fear. Every prisoner fears his Seeker when he first meets him, though the degree of fear depends on the prisoner's background and temperament. The Seeker must therefore find some way to make the prisoner understand that he will not be harmed if he cooperates, whether or not he offers his confession. The Seeker also uses this stage to begin to determine whether the prisoner is in fact innocent of his crime." 

"That's not important here," Layle said. "Imagine you're in a dungeon where all of the prisoners are guilty. What is the next stage?" 

"Cooperation. Only the cooperative prisoners enter this stage: it's marked by the prisoner indicating his willingness to cooperate to some degree with the demands of his Seeker. A few prisoners will offer their confession at this point, but the great majority will refuse to confess, either because they fear the consequences of their confession or because, more likely, they do not consider themselves guilty in any true sense of the word." 

"Is that what the goal is of the Seeker?" Layle asked. "To extract a confession?" 

"No," Elsdon said swiftly. "That's what the prisoner thinks the goal is, and what most of the world thinks the Seekers want. But a confession from the prisoner is merely a natural byproduct of the Seeker's true goal, which is to make the prisoner aware of whatever in his life is preventing him from reaching his full potential, either in this life or in his next life. It could be darkness or a flaw – whatever it is, it's likely to be connected, either directly or indirectly, with the crime he has committed. The Seeker will seek to discover the root of the weakness in the prisoner and transform it, rather than simply obtain the confession and leave the root cause of the crime untouched." 

Layle nodded. "So this prisoner of yours cooperates. Do you deal with him gently?" 

Elsdon sighed. "If I could remake the world into my imagining, yes. But if the prisoner has reached the point of committing a crime, it's unlikely that he has the discipline to continue cooperating with his Seeker once the Seeker begins asking him questions that touch at the root of his evil. And so the discipline he lacks from within must be applied from outside. This is the stage of Discipline—" 

He stopped. Layle could guess why, but he did not allow Elsdon time to explore the connection he had just made. "Yes?" he prompted. "How is the prisoner disciplined?" 

"It depends on the prisoner," Elsdon said slowly. "Some prisoners are so callous and dangerous that they require physical torture: whipping or the rack. But wherever possible, the Seeker will make the discipline verbal. With the most cooperative prisoner, the only discipline need be the Seeker requiring the prisoner to answer his questions. This causes the prisoner anguish, but the pain comes, not from the Seeker's application of pain, but from the prisoner's desire to avoid confronting the evil in his life. Or in his past life," Elsdon added softly. 

Layle planted several kisses on Elsdon's forehead before saying, "And the next stage?" 

"The next stage is Compassion," Elsdon said quietly. "The Seeker has shown compassion from the beginning, but it is unlikely that the prisoner has recognized this. Now, though, the pain that the prisoner has undergone from the discipline will likely cause him to begin to break open and see things anew. As the Seeker comforts him during and after his discipline, the prisoner will become aware of how deeply the Seeker cares for his best interests, and— Sweet blood, I wish I could say that this leads to the fifth stage. In most cases, it doesn't. This is where we lose most of our cooperative prisoners; they become frightened and turn back to what they were before." 

"But if they do not?" Layle said between kisses. 

"If they do not, then comes the stage of Breaking. Of Self-Breaking, I should say, because the prisoner who accepts the Seeker's compassion and who trusts that the Seeker wishes to bring good to him will turn on himself and apply the methods of Seeking to himself. With the Seeker's guidance, he starts the final, painful steps, which only he can take in order to be broken in such a way as to be reborn into a new life." 

Elsdon was silent after finishing his recital. Layle wondered whether he was remembering his rebirth; it had taken place only four years before. 

Layle's own rebirth had occurred just over twenty years ago, but it was still vivid to him. He remembered that, amidst all his pain at recognizing his villainy, his only regret had been that Master Aeden had not been present to witness this, and to learn from it. 

"Layle," said Elsdon in a hushed voice, "we're play-acting, aren't we?" 

"This is real, my dear." 

"I know that. But we're also performing a play: everything we've done since you entered this cell has been a way to dramatize the five stages of transformation. When you first entered, and I shrank back from you – that was the stage of Fear. Then I rushed into your arms. That was the stage of Cooperation. Then you forced me to remember something painful from my childhood. That was the stage of Discipline. And now—" He turned his gaze up toward Layle, just at the moment that Layle bowed his head to kiss his love-mate's hair. "This is Compassion, Layle," Elsdon said. "You're acting out the fourth stage of transformation, for the sake of our audience." 

"The fourth scene," Layle corrected with a smile. "We're in a play. And I've rarely worked with a fellow player who played his role so well." 

Elsdon gave a short laugh. "It helped that I didn't know what I was doing." 

"It would have made no difference if you did – you would not have had any memorized lines to recite. My dear, we're performing theater the Vovimian way: we have a general sense of what the setting is, but neither of us knows for certain what will take place next. We wait for the gods' inspiration, as the Vovimians would put it. And we hope that the results will be fruitful enough to make us a success with our audience." 

Elsdon frowned. "Our audience. Layle, do you really think that the torturers who are watching us will understand what we're doing? I wouldn't, if I were them." 

"They'll understand." Layle's voice was so firm that Elsdon raised his eyebrows. Layle added, "Vovimian theater-goers are quite sophisticated, my dear. Vovimian theater has little dialogue – most of the drama is conveyed through movement and gesture. Our audience is accustomed to attending plays where complex ideas are conveyed through symbols. They'll be expecting that, and if they don't know what the symbols mean, they'll talk with others until they find someone who seems to have a good understanding of the meaning of the play." 

Elsdon let out his breath. "And the torturer you talked to before—" 

"Knows the _Code of Seeking_. Even if he isn't yet convinced of what the finale of this play will be, he'll explain to the others what we're trying to dramatize through our gestures and movements." 

"They could believe that this is all imaginary," Elsdon objected. "They could think that we're creating a play about something that has never really happened." 

"They could. But they won't. The final stage will be acted in such a way that they will know this is real." 

He felt Elsdon tense once more, but Layle had no time in which to add anything, for at that moment the door to the cell opened. Not for the first time, Layle inwardly cursed the lack of locks upon Vovimian cell doors. He was intensely aware, as he had not been before, that he was practicing the intimacies of his bedroom before a rapt audience. 

The audience in question was the scar-faced youth, who stared at Layle with a dumbfounded expression. Layle quickly extracted himself from Elsdon and rose. "Well?" he said sharply. "What do you want?" 

The suggestion of a grin began to emerge onto the youth's face. "Not wanting to disturb you," he said in the thick accent of a southern Vovimian, "but this here silence had me worried. Had the feeling that you hadn't started your work yet." 

Layle waited a long moment, till his cool gaze had done its job and the youth began to look less smug. Then Layle said, in the old tongue of Vovim that he had learned from one of his fellow street-children when he was a boy, "Meddlesome servant with the brains of a pig. What would you know of my work techniques?" 

The old tongue was a language well-suited for insults; he saw the impact of his words as the guard's eyes grew wide. Layle gave the guard no time to consider whether to attack back. Instead, he said in an acid voice, "I was brought here as a consultant for the High Master. So highly does our master value my services that he did not ask me to prove my worth in the holding cell. Can you say the same?" 

The guard mumbled something about being duty-bound to report on lax torturers. 

"Oh, yes?" said Layle with raised eyebrow. "And what do you plan to tell the High Master in your report? That the High Seeker, the highest-ranked torturer from the best-renowned dungeon in the living world, didn't happen to be torturing his prisoner by the same techniques that you had seen in the past? Obviously, I am wanting in education. Tell me, please, how I should proceed in this matter. Or perhaps I should ask the High Master to have you train me?" 

He had not thought it would be possible for the guard's eyes to grow wider, but he was proven wrong. The guard began to edge his way out of the cell, mumbling apologies in a fumbling manner that suggested this was a new activity for him. Layle waited until the moment when the guard was sure he had made his escape; then he said, "Wait." 

The blade of his voice transfixed the guard in his place. Layle walked over to him, let his cool gaze travel over the guard in a manner suggesting that he was fitting him for the rack, and finally said, in an equally cool voice, "Your vigilance is to be commended. I will see that the High Master knows of your loyalty." 

The guard narrowed his eyes, obviously uncertain as to whether this was a trap, but Layle added nothing more, and after a moment the guard relaxed. "Sorry I disturbed you, sir," he said. 

"Not at all," Layle said, keeping his voice cool. "I can see why you would be confused; my techniques are new to this place. Tell me, Mr.— What is your name?" 

Bewilderment covered the face of the guard. "Jack. Jack Ifor. But nobody's ever called me nothing but Jack." 

"It is the custom where I come from to address others formally," Layle told him. "I've found that it improves work conditions. I imagine that work conditions here aren't as good as they could be, Mr. Ifor?" 

He waited patiently as Jack struggled with this question, clearly at two minds as to whether to give an honest answer. Layle had no doubt what that answer would be. He had learned long ago that, if he wanted to know what conditions were like in the Eternal Dungeon, it was of no use to ask his fellow Seekers. The dungeon's guards were the ones who bore the brunt of any difficulties caused by poor work conditions. 

"Well, sir," said Jack, rolling his tongue around the word "sir" as though it were unfamiliar to him. "It ain't the High Master's fault. I mean, he's good to us. But . . . well . . . shifts are long. And we get piles of prisoners these days, almost more than we can handle." 

Layle nodded. "We had similar problems in Yclau long ago, before we found a solution to the problem." 

"Killing some of the prisoners?" Jock suggested hopefully. 

"That's one solution," Layle replied evenly. "But that's not a solution here, is it? The prisoners can't be killed when they're already dead." 

"Oh. Right. Well, we can't let any of the prisoners go, sir – they're too dangerous. They'd cause more harm in the world." 

"I can well imagine," Layle said dryly, once more running his eye over the guard's scars. "What if I told you, Mr. Ifor, that the Eternal Dungeon has found a way to remake the prisoners so that they are no longer harmful? So that they can be released into the world safely, in order to make room for new prisoners and to make the guards' schedules less strenuous?" 

Jock looked duly impressed. "Without breaking them, sir? We have a rule here against breaking prisoners." 

"I will not violate any rules," Layle assured him. "However, I require absolute privacy in order to accomplish this difficult task." 

Jack took the hint. "I'll see that you're not disturbed again, sir," he said, reaching toward the door. Then he added as an afterthought, "I'll break anyone's arms who tries to disturb you." 

He closed the door before Layle had time to thank him for his thoughtfulness. Layle continued staring at the door for a moment, wondering whether his skills at binding could be refined in such a manner as to allow him to bind the door shut. Then he became aware of a strange sound behind him. He turned swiftly, and found that Elsdon was on his knees, choking with half-suppressed sounds. 

He did not draw any hasty conclusions this time. He slowly walked forward and knelt beside his love-mate, touching him softly. Elsdon looked up. He was in the midst of trying to swallow a laugh. 

"I'm sorry, love," he said. "But seeing you there, speaking with all the deep-voiced authority of the High Seeker . . ." 

Layle relaxed into a smile. "Uncooperative prisoners can sometimes be frightened into cooperation. We were in danger there; your guard was on the point of reporting me to the High Master." 

"The High Master." Elsdon's laughter subsided, and he raised his head as he stared in the direction of Layle. "Have you met the torture-god yet?" 

Layle said slowly, "I'm not sure." 

"Not sure? What do you mean?" 

Layle tilted his head to look up at his audience. The latest episode in the drama had evidently gone over well; even though they could not hear what he had said to the guard, his onlookers had apparently read rightly the threat of his stance. They looked delighted, as though someone they had begun to suspect was a kitten had turned into a preying lion. Layle could see the bully he had encountered in the common cavern, leaning over the railing with pleasure spread across his face. 

Layle shuddered and looked away. He told Elsdon, "The gods of Vovim are not disembodied beings; they take the form of humans. Mercy walks in the world above. When I was young, my mother told me that I must always be kind to others I met, because the other person might be host to Mercy. The torture-god, though, dwells in afterdeath, taking the form of one of his torturers." 

"You said 'host.'" Elsdon leaned forward. "Does that mean that the gods enter the bodies of humans who are already alive?" 

Layle nodded. "The torturer who hosts the High Master is not destroyed – that would be against the High Master's purposes. The torture-god merely seeks to join himself with whichever of his servants is best able to forward his goal." 

"To torture prisoners," Elsdon said dryly. 

"To bring justice," Layle corrected. Elsdon twisted his mouth in a skeptical fashion, and Layle added, "That is the goal of both Mercy and the torture-god. They only battle each other over souls whose lives have been so entwined with both good and evil that it is unclear which divinity should have custody over the soul. In cases where the soul has clearly led an evil life, Mercy gives him over to the High Master to be punished, and in cases where the soul has clearly led a good life, the High Master gives him over to Mercy to be rewarded. Or so I was taught." 

Elsdon thought upon this for a while before saying, "The host – is it always the same person?" 

Layle smiled. "No. Every few centuries, the High Master finds a new host, one who can bring him closer to his ideal of perfect justice. It's considered a great honor, you know, to become host to the High Master." 

Elsdon laughed then. "Was that your ambition? I can envision you dreaming of becoming the torture-god." 

Layle gave him a soft smile. "When I was a boy. I have my own dungeon now; I don't need someone else's dungeon. . . . The host remains free and unbound in his will, for the High Master has chosen him precisely because the High Master is pleased with the workings of his will. The High Master does not enslave his host; rather, the host and the High Master work together in the interests of justice." 

"A benevolent master," Elsdon murmured. He linked eyes with Layle, as though he could see him in the dark. "Layle . . . you're planning more than just our escape, aren't you? You're trying to show the High Master a new way of justice – you're trying to change hell." 

"My old master always said I was overambitious," Layle admitted ruefully. 

Elsdon laughed. "The Eternal Dungeon has long been indebted to your ambition. So the High Master could be any of the torturers here?" 

"Anyone at all. The bully I met in the common cavern . . . The young girl who tortured puppies . . . Even the man in green who recently became a torturer. Perhaps the time had arrived when the High Master chose a new host; that could explain why the ground rumbled at that moment." 

"Could the High Master be hosted by the torturer you spoke with?" 

Layle shook his head slowly. "No. That man referred to himself as a lowly servant of the High Master. I've known him in the past; he has never told a direct lie to me. Not that torturer . . . but someone else here. Perhaps someone I've already met." 

"Layle," Elsdon whispered, "if there's a chance the High Master is watching us now . . ." 

"He could intervene when he realizes what we're planning to do. I know. I think it's time, my dear, that we finished this." 

Elsdon nodded, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then he raised his chin. "Layle, the symbol of breaking will have to be a visible one; it has to be dramatic enough to convince those skeptics up there. You can't just discipline me with words again." 

"I know," Layle said quietly. "They cannot hear us. With words alone, it would not be clear that you were the master of the breaking rather than me." 

Elsdon nodded; he appeared calm now. "Which instrument shall we use?" 

"It will have to be quick, my dear. We may not have much time." 

Elsdon swallowed again, but his voice was steady as he said, "We knot your belt? Or did you bring rope?" 

Layle still had his mouth open to answer when the door crashed open. He leapt to his feet and whirled, his hand where his dagger would have been if he had been wearing one. It was his automatic reaction to being disturbed unexpectedly, though it had been nearly a quarter of a century since he ended his life of crime. 

All words withered on his tongue as he saw two of the lesser guards struggle into the cell, holding a bulky object. Jack, who followed them into the cell, gave Layle an apologetic look. 

"Sorry, sir," he said. "High Master's orders. Master Aeden told him that this was your preferred instrument of torture, so the High Master made sure earlier today that it would be delivered to you when you arrived." 

"I see." Layle let his eye travel over the instrument in question. It had been many years since he had last used it, but its design appeared no different from the design of those used in the Hidden Dungeon. "Please give the High Master my thanks. This is exactly what I need." 

Jack's face relaxed into relief. He glanced over at the other guards, who were busy positioning the heavy object at the far end of the cell. Then he looked at Layle, his eyes flicking toward the door. 

Layle took the hint. He stepped into the corridor, followed closely behind by Jack, who immediately glanced up toward the crowd on the balcony. Everyone there, though, seemed absorbed by the setting up of the equipment. Satisfied, Jack drew an object from his pocket and held it out toward Layle, being careful to shield it from the view of those above him. "From Master Aeden, sir," he whispered. "He remembered that you liked to use it with prisoners." 

Layle took a quick glance at the contraband object, which turned out to be a bottle of lovemaking lotion. It was a murky color, and he did not like to think about what it was made of, but he slipped the bottle into his pocket, murmuring his thanks. 

The lesser guards emerged from the cell. They seemed inclined to show curiosity as to why their leader had left the cell early, but Jack soon put their minds to other matters by berating them in a loud voice for a sloppy job in installing the instrument of torture. The guards disappeared down the corridor, their voices fading, until no sound was left but for the endless drip of water. 

"Scene five," whispered Layle, and returned to his waiting prisoner.


	5. Chapter 5

"The Adoration?" said Elsdon. "What a strange name for an instrument of torture." 

They were standing before the bulky object at the end of the cell, which consisted of a knee-high platform, surmounted by a box with a slight incline. Except for the foundation, the entire instrument was covered in soft, pink velvet. 

"It's named after a position of prayer," Layle explained, running his eye over the velvet to see whether the pressure of past bodies had rubbed away the fabric. The velvet showed no sign that it had ever been touched. "One of the forms of prostration to the divine is to rest upon one's shins and forearms. The box on this platform supports the prisoner's torso as he kneels in the position of Adoration." 

"And then?" said Elsdon. 

"The torturer questions him. That's all the instrument is for: to place the prisoner in a position he can remain in for periods of long questioning. . . . Can you see it?" 

"Not very well." 

Layle took Elsdon's hand and carefully placed it atop the box. Elsdon stroked it for a moment before saying, "Layle, this is soft." 

"It's padded. So is the platform it rests upon." 

"What sort of instrument of torture is padded? I can't imagine that this would produce much pain." 

"Try kneeling upon it for an hour or two," Layle said dryly. "It's a slow instrument of torture, yes. The prisoner breaks eventually, but over a long period. It's used mainly with prisoners who would die quickly if stronger methods were used against them." 

"And this was your favorite instrument of torture when you were young? Layle, that doesn't seem like the sort of instrument you would use. You prefer for prisoners to break quickly." 

"That's why I used it. I would place the prisoners here, and they would think I was showing them mercy and that they could trust me. Then I'd show them that they were wrong." 

Elsdon let his hand fall from the box; he did not reply. Layle put his arm lightly around Elsdon's waist. "My dear . . ." 

"Stop fretting, Layle." There was an edge to Elsdon's voice. "I'm not worrying about you turning back into a fiend; I'm worrying about this instrument. I'm not sure it will be dramatic enough to impress our audience, and I'm not sure it will be painful enough to break me." 

"It will in the hands of the right torturer." 

Elsdon turned his eyes slowly toward Layle. In the dull light of the cell, his hair looked dark rather than golden-brown, and his eyes were shadowed as though he still wore his hood. "Love, stop," he said quietly. "You're not making this easy for either of us. I don't need you throwing scare-tales at me; I have enough real things ahead of me to be scared about. And as for you . . . When will you trust yourself as much as I trust you?" 

"Elsdon, this is dangerous." Layle realized that he was gripping his hands into fists and tried to relax them. "I shouldn't be anywhere near a prisoner. It doesn't take a dreaming for me to become a threat – just ask the men I murdered. I no longer have the self-control I once possessed—" 

"And you will not regain it by staying away from temptation. Love, you act as though we have a choice. We don't. If I don't break myself under your guidance, I'll be taken from you and handed over to another torturer. Keep your mind on that, and I know that you'll find the strength you need." 

Elsdon placed his hand upon the cheek of Layle, who stood stiffly under his touch. Reaching up, Elsdon brushed hair from the High Seeker's eyes, saying, "Will you do something for me?" 

"You know I will." 

"Keep calling me by my first name. I know that you want the formality of last names to distance yourself from me during the torture, so that you won't be tempted to harm me, but I— Layle, this is going to be difficult for me. I can't bear the thought of you being apart from me. Will you do this for me? Be intimate with me?" 

"If you want me to, of course." Layle forced himself to break free of his paralysis, catching Elsdon's hand and bringing it to his lips. It was always like this: in the moments when Elsdon most needed his strength, Layle would grow weak, and Elsdon would be the one who comforted him. It was one of the things he hated most about himself, that he could not give Elsdon as much comfort as he deserved. 

"My dear . . ." he said, and then stopped. He could think of nothing to say that would ease Elsdon's predicament. 

Elsdon must have sensed this. He smiled and said gently, "Will you show me where I kneel, love? It will help to know beforehand." 

Layle swallowed through the dryness in his throat. Taking Elsdon's hand, he guided the other Seeker over to the far end of the platform, where the shins were placed. He allowed Elsdon a moment to feel the soft velvet there; then, holding his breath, he steered Elsdon's hands over to the break in the velvet, where the slit lay. 

He felt the jerk in Elsdon's hand as he guessed the meaning of the slit. Then Elsdon said calmly, "Straps?" 

"Manacles. Steel, without padding. You have narrow ankles and wrists, though; there will be room for you to move a bit." 

Elsdon nodded and moved his hand away. Layle caught hold of him again and guided him over to the other slit on the back end of the platform. 

"They're far apart," Elsdon said, with a hint of tension in his voice. 

"Yes. The legs are kept apart." 

"I see." 

Layle guessed that he did; Elsdon had been imprisoned in the Hidden Dungeon. Layle stole a kiss upon Elsdon's hair, saying, "No one is here except me, my dear. That part of the torture won't take place." 

Elsdon said nothing, and Layle took a moment to glance up at the ceiling. Their audience was rapt. What Layle was doing – showing the prisoner the instrument he would endure – was part of the standard procedure of a Vovimian torturer. The kisses and caresses were not. 

Elsdon had moved again, sliding his hand past the box to the front half of the platform. "Are the arms kept apart as well?" 

"No, there's only one manacle at this end; it binds both wrists. . . . Here." 

Elsdon touched the slit, and then crept his hand forward toward the edge of the platform. He paused, frowning. "What is this?" 

The front half of the platform lay in shadow; Layle had to place his hand over Elsdon's to tell what he was feeling. "The switch to lock the manacles in place. The manacles are hidden within the platform, and when this lever is pushed, the manacles emerge and slide over the prisoner's wrists and ankles." 

"But Layle, the lever's nearly within reach of the prisoner." 

"Yes. Quite a few prisoners have noticed that." 

There was a silence, and then Elsdon gave a humorless laugh. "I see. The prisoners work and work and work to squeeze their arms far enough forward in the manacles to reach the lever – and then, after all that pain, they discover that the release to the manacles is elsewhere. Somewhere where only the torturer can reach it?" 

"Down near the bottom of the foundation. If you put your hand here—" 

Layle stopped. The front half of the foundation was in shadow; he groped for a minute before saying, in a tight voice, "Elsdon . . . help me push the Adoration onto its side." 

Elsdon did so without asking questions. Layle inspected the bottom, then inspected it a second time to see whether the bottom could be opened to reveal the inner workings of the instrument. Finally he sat back on his heels, his breath heavy. 

"No release lever?" said Elsdon quietly. 

"None." He looked at the closure lever, trying to convince himself that it also served as a release lever, but he knew the truth. 

"Of course not." Elsdon's voice sounded hollow in the cold cell. "This is a dungeon for eternal torture." 

Layle slid his hands over his face. Until now, he had been able to turn his mind from what lay ahead – from what must lie ahead if he was to obtain the escape he desired. But there before him was the symbol of what lay ahead for Elsdon. 

He felt a hand on his arm. Elsdon said, "Love, don't worry. I'm sure you can find a way to convince the High Master to release me, after I've broken." 

"You'll get your release," Layle said in a harsh voice. "It won't be an easy one, though." 

Elsdon gave a soft chuckle. "Since when were matters ever easy with us? Layle, I think we should start. The High Master isn't going to wait forever." 

Layle was able to focus his mind for the next minute on the strenuous work of helping Elsdon set the instrument back on its base. Then he took several steps back and stared down at the Adoration. It looked harmless. 

It always had. 

"What now?" asked Elsdon. "Do I just start?" 

Layle shook his head. "We need to convince our audience that I'm not ordering you to do this against your will." 

Elsdon thought on this a moment; then a small smile tickled his lips. "I'm going to like this part," he said. 

Layle let him make the move forward. He remained passive under Elsdon's embrace and kiss, so that the onlookers would know that he was not sexually assaulting Elsdon. Only at the very end did he allow his arms to curl round Elsdon's waist, and his lips to press more firmly. Even then, though, he took care to keep his desire down. His heart was beating hard, but it was from fear. Fear that the desire would come. 

Elsdon pulled back finally. His mouth was smiling; his eyes were not. "And now?" 

Layle cleared his throat. "Now we start." 

Elsdon took a step backwards toward the Adoration, followed by another step. Then he looked up, his eyes squinting as he gazed toward the audience he could not see. Layle wondered whether he too had play-acting fright. 

"Layle," Elsdon said, "before Master Aeden tortured me, he stripped me. Is that the custom here?" 

Layle felt his mouth and throat grow drier. "Elsdon, you needn't—" 

Elsdon shook his head. "If we're going to do this, we need to do it as closely to the Vovimian way as possible. Otherwise, our audience will think that I'm resisting being tortured." 

As he spoke, his hand went to his collar. He swiftly unknotted the shirt, unknotted the belt and trousers, and let his clothes slide into a neat heap at his ankles. As he crouched down to remove his boots, he glanced up at Layle and frowned. "Love?" 

"Give me a moment," Layle said hoarsely. He saw Elsdon's expression out of the edge of his eye; Layle had turned his gaze away in the moment that Elsdon's light-skinned torso came into view, and now he was cursing himself with every Vovimian oath he knew. He could feel sweat gathering in his loins, where the warmth was greatest. 

He closed his eyes and recited to himself the opening words of the _Code of Seeking_ , then recited to himself the passage about the penalties placed upon Seekers who did not place the best interests of their prisoners first. He had written those words himself; they came to him like a familiar lullaby. Finally he felt safe enough to open his eyes. He did so, and felt his heart jump. 

Elsdon lay like a sacrifice on the altar, his naked torso stomach-down upon the box, his forearms and shins pressed upon the platform. His head hung over the box; though his arms were close enough to cradle the head somewhat, Layle could see the strain in Elsdon's neck muscles as the other Seeker turned his head to look at the High Seeker. The smile had disappeared from his mouth. 

"I'll push the lever," he said, his voice more breathless than before. "That way, they'll know that the breaking is my decision." 

"Wait." Layle walked slowly forward. The closer he came, the easier it was to see the rivulets of sweat beginning to trickle down Elsdon's body, dampening his hair. All of his hair; the bottom half of his torso hung somewhat over the box, leaving room that any trained torturer would take advantage of. 

Layle moved his eyes swiftly back to Elsdon's face. When he reached the other Seeker, he pulled off Master Aeden's cloak and draped it over Elsdon before kneeling down beside the Adoration. 

"Layle . . ." 

"They've seen you naked," Layle said firmly. "Now they'll see me keep you from dying of a chill. That's part of my job as a Seeker." 

"It's no colder here than at home," Elsdon protested, but his voice was weak. He was staring at where his hands lay, pressed close together. 

Layle would have liked to have spoken words that would still the trembling that was lightly touching Elsdon's body now, but he dared not. A glance up at the balcony warned him that the audience was becoming restless. "The lever's a hand's span in front of you," he told the night-blind Seeker. "Push it to the right, then pull your hands back quickly, so that they won't be hurt by the manacle snapping into place." 

Elsdon nodded. He took a deep breath, and another deep breath; despite his long training against such an action, Layle found himself reaching forward to place his hand upon Elsdon's shoulder. Elsdon's breath caught, and he looked over at Layle. "You won't forget your promise?" he asked in a subdued voice. "You'll stay intimate with me?" 

"As intimate as you wish." Layle stroked Elsdon's skin lightly. 

An expression flashed in Elsdon's eyes. It was a spark from an inward fire, dead before Layle had time to do more than register it. If he had been anyone else, he would not have noticed it at all. 

As it was, he felt his breath go still. _Bloody blades,_ he thought to himself, _I am growing too old if one of my junior Seekers can use his talent against me._

That was Elsdon's primary gift as a Seeker: his vulnerability. To prisoners first meeting him, the junior Seeker appeared to be shy and weak, a person who could be easily hurt and manipulated. Someone who could not possibly break them. 

Elsdon never play-acted this role. It was a true part of his character, bred in him during his years of submitting in fear to his abusive father. But it was not the only part of him, and its presence at the beginning of a searching was not due to impotence on his side, but rather to his hidden power as a Seeker. His prisoners would discover this eventually, when it was too late. 

Layle wondered what power he had just ceded to his love-mate; then he put the worry from his mind. If Elsdon wanted something from him, Layle would learn of it eventually. For now, the High Seeker's thoughts must be on his prisoner. He nodded, as though his concession had been conscious and willing, and he saw the dim beginnings of a smile on Elsdon's face. Then, before Layle had time to prepare himself, Elsdon turned his face toward his forearms. His hands darted forward and quickly back. 

He screamed. 

The three manacles slid into place at the same moment, shooting out of the slits and curving round till they met the platform with a crack. The space left by their curve was filled with Elsdon's wrists and ankles, now firmly bound against the platform. Elsdon's scream did not stop; his head was flung back, and tears were trailing from his eyes. 

Layle barely noticed the throb of blood suffusing his own body. He was struggling against an image breaking through to him of Elsdon in their bedroom in the Eternal Dungeon, screaming under torture. . . . Then Layle managed to pull back from the dreaming. "Elsdon!" he said with urgent desperation. "My dear. Are you—?" 

The door to the cell crashed open. Layle looked back and saw Jack standing there, with his sword in hand. His eyes were on Elsdon. 

"Get _out_ , you food for the torture-god!" Layle shouted at him. 

Jack remained where he was, watching Elsdon sob out the last of his scream. "Sir, I'm sorry, sir, but I have orders to stop any torturer who—" 

"Mr. Ifor," Layle said, his voice colder than the ice on the walls, "I will dismember you if you do not remove yourself from this cell. _Now!_ " 

Jack's gaze flicked away from the harshly sobbing prisoner to his torturer; the guard's expression hardened. But he seemed uneager to test Layle on his threat. After a moment he backed out of the cell, closing the door. His footsteps rushed down the corridor. 

Layle heard a faint noise and glanced up at the balcony. He saw that the crowd had erupted into consternation. The onlookers were shouting at one another, and some of the torturers had evidently made up their minds how they should respond to the latest event: they were racing down the walkway. Layle wondered whether they were members of the communications committee, gone to alert the liaison. 

He hoped that was all they were. 

Layle leaned forward, so that his face was close to his love-mate's. "Elsdon. Can you hear me?" 

"Layle, it hurts." Elsdon's voice was a breathless whimper. 

"I know, my dear; I'm sorry. Elsdon, we need to be quick about this. Your scream warned everyone that you're taking yourself to the point of breaking." 

"How long . . . ?" Elsdon panted. 

"I don't know how long we have. Only a couple of minutes if the High Master was up on that balcony. Perhaps hours if the High Master is far below in the pit. I just don't know." He passed his hand over Elsdon's forehead. It was as warm as the pool-blood had been. "Elsdon, can you—?" He stopped, unsure whether to encourage Elsdon to relax or to drive himself harder. 

"I'll break," Elsdon assured him with a cross between a sob and a laugh. "You don't have to worry about that. But till then— Sweet _blood_!" His voice vibrated, like the body that was shaking now. "Layle, please . . . Please, could you kiss me?" 

"Elsdon . . ." 

_"Please!"_ Elsdon's voice grew high with hysteria. 

Layle hesitated, glancing up at his audience. The torturers who remained on the balcony were beginning to settle down, evidently unwilling to miss the final scene of the play. A number of them were clustered around Master Aeden, who was reading aloud from the black book in his hand. 

Layle felt some of the tension in him ease, and he returned his mind to his duty. Comfort – his duty as a Seeker was to continue to offer comfort to the prisoner as he entered into his breaking. The onlookers could not hear any words he spoke, so he must offer them a visible sign of his work. 

He leaned forward and kissed Elsdon lightly on the lips, keeping his eyes closed so that he could imagine that he was back in the Eternal Dungeon, giving his love-mate a cool farewell at the beginning of a workday. He was pleased to find himself successful, and when he opened his eyes, he was smiling. 

Elsdon was not. He looked at Layle for a long moment, his thoughts so far from himself that his shaking had stilled. "Layle," he said softly, "you're not letting yourself feel my pain." 

"Elsdon, for love of the Code . . ." 

Elsdon shook his head. "Love, you're not thinking. Sooner or later, when you return to searching prisoners, you will feel desire at the sight of their pain. I know you fear that moment. I want it to happen now, while you're with me. If you can feel desire and not act on it while I'm under torture, you'll know that there's no chance that you'll harm another prisoner." 

Layle was silent a minute, hearing the faint drip of water in the corner of the cell and the fainter murmur of voices from the balcony as the onlookers awaited the next dramatic moment in the tale. He wondered what they would think if they knew that the prisoner was searching his torturer. 

"It's too dangerous," he said finally. 

"Layle, we have no guarantee that you won't feel desire later, as my breaking grows closer. Isn't it better for you to let yourself feel desire now, while your guard is greatest, rather than to let it take you unawares?" 

Layle said nothing, but after a long moment he let his eyes stray away from Elsdon's face to his body. 

_The prisoner, bound to the Adoration, racked with fear and pain from the binding alone. His body shivering, not from the cold, but from the unendurable strain of the torture. . . ._

It was a dreaming he had spun long ago about Elsdon. The dreaming was before him. 

He looked back at Elsdon. Elsdon was staring, not at him, but at his lap, as though he could see what lay there; his eyes rose to meet Layle's. Layle waited, the delectability of his desire almost forgotten in his anticipation of Elsdon's reaction. 

Elsdon smiled. It was a smile of delight, suffusing his face with as much peace as his tormented body would allow. "Oh, Layle," he whispered. "I'm so glad!" 

Layle was saved from response by a faint thunder in the distance. For a heart-jerking moment, he thought it was an earthquake. Then he looked up and saw that the onlookers were applauding. 

Some were cheering; others, in the Vovimian manner, were jumping up and down so enthusiastically that it looked as though the balcony might give way. Master Aeden was still staring down at the _Code of Seeking_ , but as Layle looked at him, he raised his head and gave a short nod to Layle, as he had in the days when his apprentice accomplished a particularly difficult task. 

"Elsdon," Layle said in wonder, "it's working. Your smile made them realize there's truth to the _Code of Seeking_ – that the prisoner can embrace his breaking. Now all we need do is show them the result of the breaking—" 

He stopped. He had looked down and seen that Elsdon was panting again, his eyes squeezed shut. The junior Seeker's fists were tight, making the tendons of the wrists jut out against the manacle. 

Layle touched him lightly. Elsdon said, without opening his eyes, "Layle . . . I know we should do this as quickly as possible, but I don't think . . . It hurts so much." 

"I know, my dear." Layle stroked his hair. "Tell me if there's anything I can do to help." 

"I think . . . I want . . . The kiss helped." 

"Would you like me to kiss you again?" 

"Yes. No. It . . . it's not enough now. I need . . . Layle, I need you to make love to me." 

Layle's breath disappeared. His desire leapt like a child at play. He could no longer hear the dripping water over the hard beat of his heart. 

"No," he said faintly. "Elsdon, I can't—" 

"You promised. Layle, you promised me you'd give me whatever intimacy I wanted." 

Elsdon turned his head and opened his eyes. No weakness showed there; his eyes were as hard as any Seeker driving his prisoner to the point of self-breaking. 

Layle remained motionless, as though encased in ice. Then he let his breath out. "So I did," he said softly. 

Elsdon smiled again, his own pain forgotten in the contentment of a Seeker who has won his battle. Layle leaned forward, thinking grimly to himself that this was most certainly going to be a play such as hell had never seen. 

He kissed Elsdon hard, and his dark desire danced with joy. 

o—o—o

The prisoner would not break. Standard procedure for breaking uncooperative prisoners was to frighten them into breaking. Then, once the breaking had been administered externally and the prisoner was in a mental position of vulnerability, the torturer would attempt to show the prisoner the advantages of turning the external breaking into an internal self-breaking. 

But this prisoner had proved too clever. He had guessed that nothing done to him in the Eternal Dungeon – none of the vaguely worded threats, none of the lightly administered torture – was aimed at his lasting harm. If he kept silent, his benevolent captors would eventually let him go, unscathed, and he would be able to continue his life of crime. 

On the first hour past midnight, two months after his arrival at the Eternal Dungeon, an eighteen-year-old torturer walked into Rack Room C and proceeded to unleash all the terror and sickening horror of the Hidden Dungeon. 

Young Layle allowed his dark desire to swell. He allowed the prisoner on the rack to witness this swelling. He said nothing for a long while, simply smiling down at the prisoner; even though he was hooded, the smile in his eyes was eloquent. Then, in the softest of voices, he proceeded to tell the man what he dreamt of doing to prisoners. And then he told the man, with a chill lightness of tone that had all the authority of truth behind it, that he had done this in the past to prisoners. 

And the man broke. Cracked, like a twig in the hand. It was as easy for Layle as in the past, and it was as pleasurable. 

He heard the prisoner's confession, then ordered the man's release from the rack, taking the first steps to heal the prisoner's body and soul. And then, when the prisoner had been returned to his usual cell, Layle turned his eyes toward the Codifier, who had attended the breaking at his request. He waited in sick anticipation to be told that he must leave the Eternal Dungeon forever because he had broken the Code. 

The Codifier did not tell him this. "Whether you receive pleasure or not from your work is of no matter," the dungeon's ethical supervisor said to the young man who would one day hold the title of High Seeker. "What matters is whether you act in the best interests of the prisoner." 

They were words that became Layle's mantra for the next twenty years, carrying him not only beyond his fear of using his dark desire to break prisoners, but also beyond his fear of using his dark desire in the bedroom. They were words he spoke to himself late at night, when staring down at his love-mate, who smiled in his sleep from the tender caresses he had received from the High Seeker during their love-making. That Layle's mind had been far away, in a black dungeon where he tortured his screaming love-mate, was of no matter. The best interests of his love-mate came first, and if Layle must use the foulest part of himself to bring joy to Elsdon, then it was worth what the Codifier had strangely referred to as his "sacrifice." 

He had never expected this, though: to bring joy to Elsdon while thinking only of his love for the other Seeker. 

He had no need to dream of Elsdon in pain; he could feel the strain in Elsdon's muscles, the shaking flesh, the sweat that poured like blood from a rock. He could smell the rank stink of fear and torment. Layle could hear Elsdon's moans and groans and the rasping of his breath as the junior Seeker strove to keep from screaming. Layle could see, whenever he raised his eyes, the wrists bound by the frigid steel. 

And he thought of none of this. It was there in the background, as once he had felt in the background the gentle words and soft touches he had given to Elsdon while they made love. Now Elsdon's pain was in the back of the stage – scenery that set the mood and drove his desire high. And here in the front of the stage, where once there had been a torturer destroying his victim, was the High Seeker, striving with all his skill to comfort his love-mate. 

He let his finger trail down Elsdon's spine and was rewarded with a moan that seemed to contain more in it than pain. Layle knew that his skill was great. It was one of the paradoxes of his life that his acute knowledge of how to bring agony to a prisoner could also be used to bring ecstasy to his love-mate. Never before had he been fully present to witness that ecstasy; in the past, Elsdon's bliss had always been a dim shadow in the background of Layle's dark dreamings. Now, reaching down to kiss Elsdon's back and taste the sharp brine of the sweat, Layle could feel tears tickling at his eyes. He was in a place he had long since lost hope of ever entering – a place that he had witnessed from the distance with keen longing, but to which he had never been able to find the path. 

"Layle," he heard Elsdon gasp. "Layle, are you here?" 

He knew why the other Seeker asked that question, at the very moment that Layle was sliding himself into the depths of his body. "I am here, my dear," Layle said softly. "I am with you." He leaned over Elsdon's back to kiss his neck. "I love you." 

He heard a strangled sound then, and felt the body quiver hard, in a tell-tale manner. Alarmed, he tried to see Elsdon's face. "Are you all right?" 

"All right?" The sob was clear in Elsdon's voice. "Layle, how could I be all right? You told me you _loved_ me." 

For a panic-stricken moment he was plunged back into his memories, into the time when he used words of love to destroy prisoners. Then he was able to rein in his fear. If Elsdon was upset by what the High Seeker was doing, he would say so. That was the long-time agreement between them, and Elsdon had never broken it. 

Already Elsdon was sobbing out more words. "'All right' – you make it sound as though this were as routine as documentwork. Layle, you've never told me you loved me." 

He paused in his rhythm, confused. "My dear, of course I have. Every day—" 

"Not when we were making love. Never then. You were always dreaming of raping me then, and you never lied to me by saying you loved me. This is the first time you've been able to speak those words while we've been together like this." 

It lashed him then, all the anguish of what was to come, and for a moment he thought that he would precede Elsdon into the breaking. He closed his eyes, driving back the pain. He dared not let that happen. The door he was forcing open was opening only because the High Master was unaware of its existence. Once the High Master learned of its existence through a breaking, the door would slam shut again. Perhaps it would open again in the future, or perhaps not. Layle could not count on the door opening for more than one person. 

He tipped his head back, hoping that the sight of gawking onlookers would cool the fire within him. But nobody was looking at him. It was clear that they thought the climax of the play had already been reached, and that anything which followed would be a denouement. That a prisoner could be tortured through his own will was exciting enough a revelation. The torturers gathered in clusters on the balcony, discussing what they had witnessed, and some of the torturers began to scurry away, evidently eager to try this new method. 

All the more reason Layle should hurry matters; one of the other prisoners might reach the point of self-breaking before Elsdon did. Not that Layle would begrudge another prisoner such a gift, but all of the other prisoners deserved some measure of the pain they were undergoing. Elsdon did not. 

Elsdon was groaning loudly now, and it was clearly from the passion that Layle was driving through his body. Layle kissed his neck again, wondering what steps he should take to bring this play to its finale. But, as in many occasions in the past, he underestimated his fellow Seeker. Amidst the gasps of pleasure, Elsdon said, "Love, I don't think . . . Sweet blood, do that again! . . . No, wait, you mustn't . . . Layle, no, it's too much, you're giving me too much. I won't be able to break if you keep— _Bloody blades!_ " 

The last was a scream as Layle plunged himself hard into the center of Elsdon's pleasure. It was a skill he had acquired long ago, to drive a prisoner into near madness by raising the prisoner's desire. It made the moment when Layle betrayed the prisoner all the more pleasurable. 

Elsdon was sobbing openly now. "Layle, why . . . Sweet blood . . . Sweet, sweet blood . . . Why are you . . . I won't be able to break, love. You're giving me too much pleasure." 

He said nothing; he could feel the rising tension in Elsdon's body, and he knew that the moment was nearing. He closed his eyes, trying to memorize the feel of Elsdon's body beneath his hands, to know the joy of his love-mate. 

For the final moment before the betrayal. 

He felt Elsdon stiffen suddenly under his body. It was a measure of the other Seeker's strength; at this point, his mind should have been hazed with the lusts of his body. But that was not Elsdon's way, to place his own pleasure over thoughts of his love-mate. "Layle!" he gasped, trying to twist his head to look back at the High Seeker. "What is it? You know something – what are you hiding from me?" 

He waited for the exact moment he needed, the moment at which Elsdon's body began to near the narrow gap he had created for it. Then he said softly, his own voice gasping with desire, "You were right. Your first guess was right. This is not a dreaming; we are dead. We died together, and you were brought to hell through your love for me." 

He felt the tension increase in Elsdon's body and knew that it was due both to Elsdon's growing knowledge and to the drive into the gap. "Then . . . then when I break . . ." 

Layle could not forbear from running a hand through Elsdon's hair, though he knew he ought to be concentrating his thoughts on pushing Elsdon further into passion. "You will truly be reborn into new life, in both soul and body. The breaking will take you from here." 

"And you?" It was a wail; Elsdon had nearly reached the point where he must enter the narrow gap of the door that Layle had opened for him. "Layle, you—" 

"I will stay." He could not speak more. The passion was beginning to bind his mouth, but he knew that Elsdon would understand what lay behind the words: Layle's knowledge that the High Master would never allow the High Seeker release from his dungeon. At best, Layle's skills would be required with other prisoners. At worst . . . The High Master's rage at what he was doing now was likely. 

"Layle, no!" Elsdon sobbed between groans. "I won't go; I won't leave you . . ." 

He felt the tremor begin to enter Elsdon, and he leaned down for one final kiss. "My dear," he whispered, "I know that you will not remember me where you are going. But try to find someone who will love you as much as I have loved you." 

It took more strength than he had to speak the words. He could feel his own body trembling, and he knew that he was perilously close to breaking. Screaming inwardly at himself in fury, he strove with all his might to stay back, to allow Elsdon to be the one to enter through the narrow gap of breaking that would be closed in the moment of his rebirth, once the High Master learned of this door of escape. 

Elsdon's sobs turned to a scream as Layle's words, and Elsdon's deep love for the High Seeker, pulled him into the breaking. His body began to pulse under Layle's hands as he reached his climax. Layle, flinging back his chest and head as his own climax began, caught a blurry glimpse of the balcony, now empty but for a single, long-bearded torturer, witnessing the escape with serious eyes and a small smile on his face. 

And then Elsdon's body was fading under Layle's hands, disappearing, and at the same moment Layle felt the ground begin to rumble as the High Master roared, sensing the escape of a prisoner. The sound swallowed the last of Elsdon's scream – swallowed too the scream of Layle as he entered into his own breaking. He felt his body falling, tumbling through the empty space where Elsdon had been. Pain lashed through him as he fell from the platform and crashed onto the floor. 

The door of escape shut behind Elsdon, and Layle was left behind in the eternal torment of his loss.


	6. Chapter 6

He had been reborn for the space of a day. Never had he imagined that the pain could be so great. 

After he crossed the border, he stopped and looked back at what he had left behind. The land of his birth. The work of his childhood dreamings. The only person who had loved him since his mother's death. 

The only person who ever would. 

Behind him, at his back, he could feel all that lay ahead in his journey. He would use the art of his trade to force his way into audience with the Queen of Yclau. There, he would tell the Queen that he had murdered fourteen men and raped an innocent virgin before he turned sixteen. He would tell her that he had spent the past three years as the King's Torturer, destroying every prisoner he was given, with all the skill of his cruelty. He would tell her that he had entered her land unlawfully, a border-breacher from Yclau's enemy neighbor, with no excuse for his violation except the Yclau blood of his mother, long since sullied by his deeds. 

He thought it unlikely that he would live that day out. And if the Queen permitted him to live, and did not send him back to Vovim where death awaited him, he saw no reason why she should give him the opportunity he craved, to work in the Eternal Dungeon. And even if a strange miracle should occur and she should give him that gift, he saw no reason that the men who ran the Eternal Dungeon would permit him to exercise his skills. 

Why should they? His only skill was to destroy. He knew nothing about helping a prisoner to rebirth. 

The border was so very close. The Hidden Dungeon lay less than a day's run from the border; that was the only reason he had been able to accomplish this escape. He could go back now and tell the High Master of the Hidden Dungeon that he had slipped out of the dungeon only in order to cool the hot blood of his youth with some bed-play. He knew that his talents were great enough to achieve this deception. 

His own master would not be fooled, but Master Aeden was a forgiving man. He would be forgiven again, and loved again, if he returned. But if he stayed away . . . Every moment he stayed away increased the chance that he had lost the only love he would ever receive in his youth or manhood. 

He felt himself sink to his knees upon the winter-cold ground; his chest was heaving. He wanted to pray to the gods for guidance, but he feared that Mercy considered him a traitor for leaving her land. As for the torture-god . . . For so many years he had dreamt of the proud moment when he would enter hell's dungeon. There, in the most perfect place of torture that could be imagined, hell's High Master would give him work suitable to his talents. 

The dreaming lay within him like a strangled corpse. He knew what awaited him upon death. 

Something slipped from his hands: the only belonging he had taken with him in his long run to the border. Fumbling with cold hands, he reached forward to pick it up. Then he stopped. The pages had flown open when the book fell; there, under his hands, lay a passage that he had not noticed during his first and only reading of the contraband volume. 

"We ask our prisoners to risk their lives and their souls," the black book said. "We must be willing to risk the same for them." 

Slowly he picked up the book, hugging it to his body. He looked once more upon the treasures of his old life, of all the joy that lay in his time of dark deeds. Then he scrambled to his feet and turned his face toward his new life – toward the pain of rebirth. 

o—o—o

Water dripped in the corner of the cell. The air was cold. Fire burnt in the room, but it was in Layle's back and head and heart. 

He felt the emptiness he remembered from his first breaking, twenty years before. At that time, beyond the pain of his rebirth, joy had awaited him. And now— 

"Did it work?" 

He turned his head, which still ached from his crash onto the floor. Elsdon remained where Layle had left him, kneeling upon his shins and forearms, his torso lifted up by the support. 

"I don't know," said Layle. "Do you feel reborn?" 

With a scream, Elsdon launched himself from the bed; the pillows that had been supporting his torso flew like tree-petals in springtime. The junior Seeker landed upon Layle's abdomen, his legs straddling Layle's body, and his fists pounding on Layle's chest. "It worked!" he cried. "Tell me it worked!" 

"It worked," Layle said, caught between pain and laughter. "You were there the whole time. Oh, Elsdon, I heard every word you spoke—" 

With another scream, Elsdon launched himself onto Layle's neck, biting and kissing indiscriminately until Layle's laughter overwhelmed him and took him prisoner. 

Only a thumping upon the wall from their long-suffering neighbor in the next Seeker cell put an end to their incoherent cries and laughter. The two men subsided slowly, Elsdon's head now resting in the hollow of Layle's shoulder as the High Seeker stroked his hair, feeling the emptiness fill with something greater than had been there before. It had been that way after the first breaking also. 

He felt Elsdon's breath upon his chest, sweetly warm and moist. Elsdon's fingers played with the hairs around his nipples, which were stiff from the usual coolness of the underground cavern in which the Eternal Dungeon was housed. 

"We'll have to tell Mr. Bergsen," Elsdon said in a tranquil voice. "He'll be delighted that his idea worked. Layle, I've seen you fool prisoners in the rack room, but even so, I never guessed that you were so good at play-acting." 

Layle smiled into his hair. "And I never would have guessed that you played Torturer and Prisoner when you were young." 

Elsdon moved his hand so that it rested upon Layle's heart. "I was scared to do so for years. Then one of my school-friends suggested that I play a torturer who secretly healed the wounds of prisoners and helped them to escape from further torment. After that, I played the game every day." 

Layle chuckled. "Destiny. You were meant to become a Seeker. Or a play-actor." 

"Bloody blades, no!" Elsdon buried his face into the hollow of Layle's body, trying unsuccessfully to hide his reddening cheeks. "I was terrible today. The way I laughed at the worst moment—" 

"Your amusement at the guard's entrance startled me, I'll admit." 

"Oh, I couldn't help _that_. Layle, there you were, speaking with all the deep-voiced authority of the High Seeker, and you were talking to a _broom_." 

Layle lifted his head so that he could see the object in question, leaning against the wall next to the door. He said with a smile, "It looked different in the dreaming." 

"Well, that wasn't the laughter I was referring to. I meant at the beginning of the play, when you entered the bedroom, and I went all hysterical on you—" 

Layle kissed his head again. "That didn't disturb me, my dear. I knew that it would be hard for you to enter into your part, when you had so little training at play-acting. You did much better than I'd imagined you would. The only point at which I nearly broke out of my dreaming was when the torture began. Your scream seemed real—" 

"It was." 

Elsdon's voice has turned low. Layle lay still a moment, fighting the impulse to grab Elsdon's face and force it into view. Then he carefully pulled himself and his love-mate into a sitting position and allowed Elsdon to lay his head upon Layle's shoulder again, shielding his expression. 

"I hurt you?" Layle said finally, trying to keep his voice level. 

"No worse than I've been hurt with prisoners." Elsdon's voice was level also. "You know how it is, Layle – I get so caught into the prisoner's tale that it's hard for me not to feel his pain. And you made the dreaming seem real to me. Even though I couldn't see what you could see, I could almost feel the manacles closing upon me. . . ." 

Layle gave a soft curse and held Elsdon tight, then quickly released him, uncertain whether his touch was welcome at this moment. Elsdon raised his head then; a soft smile grazed his lips. 

"You were wrong, you know. My love for you isn't a flaw." 

Layle stared at the cold floor upon which they sat. "So you noticed that." 

"Of course I did, love. It was the central point of our play. You were trying to tell me that I mustn't love you – that my love for you would cause me unnecessary pain, and that I must remove that flaw through a breaking." He kissed Layle on the High Seeker's motionless lips and said, "Love, I followed you into the hell of your dreamings. I allowed myself to see within your darkness. I did that out of love for you. Do you truly consider that a weakness?" 

Layle pulled Elsdon tight then, pressing his face against the junior Seeker's hair so as to wipe away the moisture in the corners of his eyes. "The weakness is mine, that I let you come with me. That I can never find the strength to send you away." 

"Then stop trying," Elsdon said firmly. "You tried to send away your dark desire, and if you had succeeded, what would you be today? You're High Seeker _because_ of your desire, Layle, not despite it. Your struggles with it gave you the strength you have today. And if you send me away—" 

"Yes." Layle's voice was muffled. "Yes, Elsdon. I know you're right. It's just hard sometimes to believe— Tell me the truth. When I walked in here at the beginning of the dreaming, were you truly afraid?" 

Elsdon placed his hands on both sides of Layle's face and lifted the High Seeker's head. He waited until Layle's gaze had bonded with his before he said, "Yes." 

Layle swallowed, but he did not break his gaze. Prisoners must not break their gaze with their Seekers. "You still want me." He was surprised to hear that the words emerged as a statement rather than a question. 

"Of course I do. Layle, I wasn't afraid _of_ you; I was afraid _for_ you. It was the first time you'd gone fully into a dreaming since your madness." 

He let out a bit of his breath. "The play between us had only begun." 

"But I had to wait an _hour_ for you to arrive, Layle! You told me you needed time to prepare yourself in the sitting room, and I dared not disturb you. By the time you finally arrived, I was certain I had lost you again." 

Layle released the deepest part of his breath. He kissed Elsdon on the forehead, saying, "I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to frighten you. I needed time to talk to the torturer who knew the Code. . . . I needed to talk to my master." 

He saw understanding flame through Elsdon's face. "That must have been a conversation worth hearing," the junior Seeker said quietly. 

Layle nodded, but he could not bring himself to speak of it yet. Instead he wiped the crumbs of tear-dust from Elsdon's face and asked, "Are you all right now?" 

"Of course I am, Layle. You know I recover from such things – why are you worrying about me?" 

"Because, Mr. Taylor, I prefer that my Seekers be in good health before I reprimand them for breaking orders." 

Elsdon slid his tongue swiftly over his lips as he stared at the piece of ground that Layle had been staring at a moment before. He began to clutch his hands together. 

"I told you before we started," Layle said. "I did not merely tell you but I ordered you, in my capacity as High Seeker. I said that we would not make love while I was in the dreaming. We would play out a scene of torture and rescue in hopes that this would satisfy the cravings of my dark desire, but I would not touch you sexually. The danger was too high that I would lose control and rape you. Do you remember this order?" 

"Yes, sir." Elsdon's gaze remained on the ground. 

"You manipulated me into a promise that forced me to have sex with you. Do you deny this?" 

"No, sir." 

"Do you have a defense for what you did?" 

"No, sir." The words were spoken without hesitation. 

That was the problem, of course. Elsdon had not done this blindly. He had done it in full knowledge that he was breaking orders and would face the consequences afterwards of his disobedience. Suspension from his duties? Loss of his title as Seeker? Elsdon could not have known how seriously Layle would treat this offense, nor what the price would be for what he had done. 

Layle sighed, trying to remember why it was that he had decided four years ago that the High Seeker could be permitted to love-bond with one of the Seekers under his supervision. Finally he gave up the struggle to understand his motives. He crooked his finger, using it to lift Elsdon's chin. "Thank you," he said softly. "It was a masterly display of your talents as a Seeker." 

Elsdon's expression was so dumbfounded that Layle could not forbear laughing. After a moment, Elsdon joined in and leaned into his embrace. "No long sessions on the rack?" he said. 

"I may have you mop a floor or two. Anything more than that would be hypocritical, given my debt to you. For you have given us, my dear, our new way to make love. To make love in a way we never have before. When we're together, I won't leave you by going into a dreaming; I'll simply remember what passed between us today. That memory will be enough to bring my desire forth." 

Elsdon sighed as he hugged Layle tighter. "That will be delightful, to have you enter into my world of love. And when I enter into yours—" 

Elsdon raised his head, apparently alerted by the sudden tension in Layle's muscles. He frowned at the High Seeker. "Layle, surely you didn't think I was going to make you stay in this world _every_ time we went to bed together! I know that it's as hard for you to remain outside your dreaming as it is for me to stay within your dreaming. Fair shares – you'll come into my world, and I'll come into yours." 

"There's no need," Layle replied in a taut voice. "I explained to you already, I can remain with you here. There's no need for you to undergo pain again—" 

"Oh, bloody blades, Layle, don't act like a brainless Vovimian!" 

Layle realized after a moment that he was gaping, and shut his mouth. Elsdon, looking chagrined that he had chosen this common Yclau insult, said more quietly, "Love, sometimes I think you leave that keen Seekerly mind of yours at the doorway to this bedroom. I _enjoyed_ play-acting with you. It was painful, yes, but no more painful than being a Seeker, and I don't recall that you ever let me use pain as an excuse for neglecting my duties while you were training me. You drove me through all the labor of transforming myself into a Seeker; you knew how great the rewards would be for me. Are you going to stop me from undergoing the same pleasure of learning how to play-act?" 

Layle decided that his brain had certainly been left behind somewhere beyond the door; he could not seem to find a response to this. Finally he said, "I never meant it to happen more than once. Just that one time to feed my desire and keep it from breaking free—" 

"Oh, sweet blood!" Elsdon pretended to swoon onto Layle's lap. "High Seeker, you have most certainly lost your wits. That beautiful play we just performed, thanks to your desire – after all that, you're going to talk about chaining your desire or being chained by it? Layle, you owe the dark desire your _life_. Of course you can't let it run wild, but neither can you keep it in the darkest cell of a dungeon—" 

"Apprentice it." 

Elsdon stopped in mid-sentence. "Pardon?" 

"I'll turn it into my apprentice," Layle said slowly. "I'll take the torturous murderer that is my desire, and I'll train it to use its skills at breaking to bring good to the world." 

Elsdon smiled, pulling himself up into a sitting position on Layle's lap. He patted the High Seeker on his head, saying, "I knew that you'd find your wits eventually. Layle, this is going to be such fun; I've already thought of a dozen plays we can perform. We could be Yclau soldiers who were captured by Vovimian soldiers, and you'd be forced to watch as I was raped and tortured, and afterwards you would help to heal my soul by making love to me—" He looked down to where he was sitting on Layle's lap. "Oh, you like that one, do you?" 

"Elsdon, stop," Layle said, hoarsely and far too weakly. 

"Stop? Why on earth should we stop? Let's perform that one now, Layle. I haven't even told you about the part where the enemy soldiers come back, and you're forced to fight them for me. . . ." 

Layle felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He leaned forward and kissed Elsdon lightly, saying, "My dear, I can see that you're going to shower me once more with gifts I'd not thought to imagine. But later. Your shift is beginning." 

Elsdon squirmed in Layle's lap in order to look at the water clock, dripping in the corner. "Bloody blades," he grumbled, and scrambled to his feet, his hand already reaching for the neat pile of clothes he had left in the middle of the floor. "Layle, how do you always know when the night shift is beginning, even without looking at the clock?" 

"From the High Master's earthquake." 

Elsdon paused, his half-hose dangling from his hand. "What?" 

Layle gave a light chuckle. "When the guards at the entrance to the Eternal Dungeon open the gates to let out the cave bats for their nightly feeding, they're especially forceful in slamming the gates wide open. The crash causes a slight vibration through the entire dungeon. It feels like the beginning of a cave-in." 

Elsdon grimaced as he hopped on one foot, trying to pull on his half-hose. "I'm glad I'm not as sensitive to touch as you are – I'd be shivering with horror at the beginning of every night shift. Though granted that your sensitivity has its uses in this room. . . . Where's my hood?" 

"I'll get it." Layle pulled himself off the floor, stretched to ease his cramped muscles, and walked toward the night-table where his hood and Elsdon's lay companionably mingled. 

Behind him, Elsdon was grumbling again. "I hate these dusk-to-dawn shifts. If I were a High Seeker fashioning shifts, or even a High Master . . . Layle, is what you told me about the torture-god true? That he's supposed to be a benevolent master? Because, if so, I'd like you to tell me more about the Vovimian religion. That's not the picture of Vovim we were given in school. . . ." 

His words were a faint background in Layle's mind. The High Seeker stood by the night-table, his hand upon Elsdon's hood, as he stared down at the yellowed etching. 

The whorled pit was filled with dozens of ice-cells, each lovingly depicted, along with the torture taking place in them. Ice hung everywhere, except in the places where fire was being used. Above it all, standing alone on a walkway that served as a balcony, was a long-bearded torturer, holding a black object that might have been a pincer, or might have been a hot iron. 

He felt Elsdon's hand touch his shoulder. The junior Seeker said quietly, "Wherever he is, Layle, I'm sure he has forgiven you." 

Layle made no reply. He continued to stare down at the tiny figure, so carefully drawn that an onlooker could see the small smile on the man's face as he stared down at the torture. 

Elsdon's hand suddenly went tight upon Layle's shoulder, like the strap of a rack biting in. "Layle," he said, "am I entering a dreaming, or are there fewer people in that picture than when we looked at it before?" 

"Elsdon," he replied patiently, "you've only seen this etching once. I've stared at it a thousand times, and—" He stopped abruptly, his eye moving back and forth over the image. 

The woman was missing. The woman whom he had gazed at a thousand times as a child – the woman who was being roasted by a torturer. Nor could he find the man who had been encased in ice in the glittering cavern. The people bound in the blood-dark pool were there – some of them. Some of their torturers were missing too. The cavern with the hanging souls was only half filled. 

His gaze skittered back and forth, seeking a familiar pair, but the etching disappeared from his eyes as Elsdon came round to the other side of the night-table and pulled the thick paper up, peeking at its underside. 

He looked up. Layle could see only his eyes from behind the paper, peering upwards with dark soberness. "Love," Elsdon said, "do you know the title of this picture?" 

Layle shook his head. "The copy that hung in my childhood home was framed, with no indication on the outside of who made the etching or what it was called. I could tell from its style that it was old – far older than the Eternal Dungeon – but that was all. The art tradesman who found this copy of the etching had to locate it by description." 

Silently, Elsdon laid down the paper so that the underside showed. At the bottom of the page, written so faintly in pencil that Layle had not noticed it before, was the name of the artist, the date of her birth and death four centuries before, and three words: "The Eternal Dungeon." 

Layle met the eyes of Elsdon, who had returned to stand by the High Seeker. Then, with the same movement of eye, both men looked down at the paper. Layle turned it over. 

After a moment Elsdon said in a small voice, "There are definitely fewer people in the picture now." 

Layle made no reply; he had found the pair he was looking for. They were in a higher ice-cell than they had been before – the highest ice-cell of all, in fact. A man in red was lying upon the Adoration, tiny rivulets of sweat covering his body, but no manacles bound him to the platform, as they once had. Nearby, a green-clothed torturer watched the self-breaking with compassion clear upon his face. 

Layle heard Elsdon's breath pull swiftly in, but he did not turn his gaze to see whether his love-mate had noticed the same scene. His own gaze had returned to the long-bearded torturer on the balcony, who might have been holding a pincer, or might have been holding a black-bound volume. 

_I can be what I have been till now, one of the lowest members of the higher order. Or I can join the lower order of mankind and be among the best of them._

Layle touched the torturer lightly with his finger, feeling the beginnings of a smile creep onto his face. He murmured, "I think Mercy will be pleased this time with your decision to stay." 

He felt the moisture of breath upon his ear. A voice whispered, "If Mercy walks in the world above, I know what form she has taken." The voice was followed by a warm kiss on the ear; Elsdon added, "I'll see you at dawn, love." He reached for his hood. 

Layle was still staring at the etching when he heard Elsdon open the bedroom door. He whirled round. "Wait!" 

Elsdon paused, watching as Layle quickly clothed himself and pulled on his hood. By the time that the High Seeker came forward to join him, Elsdon was smiling. "You're going to work with the prisoners again." 

It was not a question, but Layle nodded. "I have an idea for a method to help your new prisoner. I'll tell you on our way. . . ." He flipped down the face-cloth of his hood, then put his arm around Elsdon's shoulders and steered him toward the door to the corridor. His arm was still guiding his love-mate when the door closed behind them. The Seekers disappeared down the corridor, their voices fading, until no sound was left but for the endless drip of water. 

o—o—o

Back in the bedroom shared by the High Seeker and his love-mate, the lamp flickered low, casting deep shadows upon the etching. The torturer on the balcony smiled as he looked down upon his dungeon. 

The transfer to the new host had been as painless as always: his lowly servant had joyfully embraced the opportunity to serve his master in a higher capacity. And the timing had gone well also. The High Master had joined with his host just in time to exchange a few words with the Consultant whose Code book had so intrigued him, before the man began his work. Then the High Master had been able to witness the prisoner's searching through the eyes and mind of a host who knew the Consultant well enough to be able to tell whether the man was trying to deceive the High Master. 

The man had not deceived him. How very odd. The High Master never ceased to marvel at how, even with his divine powers, he could learn new truths each century from his servants. 

He felt the touch of his host's mind, urging his hands forward. He did not resist, but joined his thoughts fully with his host as High Master Aeden opened the _Code of Seeking_ and began to read it again, in hopes of learning new ways to bring justice. 

o—o—o   
o—o—o

. . . Nonetheless, it is possible for more conscientious historians to reconstruct the steps Layle Smith took to emerge from his madness by noting the first recorded instance of his use of "play-acting." 

This is, of course, Layle Smith's most famous contribution to the overarching principles of transformation therapy, which were developed by dozens of Seekers and which now serve as the backbone for psychologists' interactions with criminals and other deeply troubled patients. "Play-acting" has proved so valuable a form of therapy that it is often used with patients suffering only from mild ailments of the mind. 

The principle behind "play-acting" (I should add for the lay reader) is that it is impossible for someone dwelling outside of the delusional world which a patient has formed to change the patient's outlook by rejecting that world. Rather, he must enter into that world, much as an actor enters into a play. By acting as though the world is real, the psychologist can gradually help the patient to recognize any inadequacies in his world-view. 

But the conscientious psychologist must go further than that and recognize that delusional world-building is simply a distorted form of the creative impulse that is found most especially in young children, artists, and seers. Thus the psychologist must be on the alert for any signs that the delusions have caused the patient to reach a higher understanding than the outside world offers him. 

Though the second part of this principle is often neglected by arrogant psychologists, it is quite clear in the earliest instance of the use of "play-acting," which occurred in the sixth month of 359. It is no coincidence that this date is three years after Layle Smith first began to enter into madness and two months after he finally returned to his full duties as a Seeker. Layle Smith himself acknowledged, in a brief note to the High Master of the Hidden Dungeon, that he "came to realize the full value of play-acting with prisoners by understanding the truthfulness of my dark dreamings." This sentence has been distorted by revisionist historians to mean that Layle Smith believed that his delusional world was true in the mundane sense. But the context of Layle Smith's sentence shows that he had in mind something akin to artistic creativity and religious visions, and that his time in madness, however painful for him, opened up to him mental and spiritual vistas that he had previously striven to avoid. 

Revisionist historians who sneer at Layle Smith's time in madness and see it as akin to the darkest abuses that took place in the Eternal Dungeon have forgotten this: that the potential for evils of the mind did not disappear with the coming of modern psychology – rather, the potential increased. Would that the modern world had its own Layle Smith who could open up our dark dreamings and show us where the treasure lies amidst the poison. 

_—Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon._


	7. Transformation | Historical Note

At the tender age of fourteen, I decided to write a book on the history of the Agrarian Revolution. 

I had conceived of this idea while at a British school, attending a history class which, in the space of an entire term, covered the changes in farming over several centuries, and especially the conflicts that arose between the aristocracy and the working class. The conflicts arose because many members of the aristocracy seized peasant farming land and made it their own. One of the means by which the ruling class ensured farming profits thereafter was through the Corn Laws ("corn" being the British word for the most important grain in any given territory – in England, that meant wheat). These laws regulated the price of grain. By the early nineteenth century, a combination of high bread prices (due to the Corn Laws) and bad harvests were resulting in starvation conditions for the working class. As a result, reformers arose, demanded expanded representation in Parliament. 

"I want to write a book about the Agrarian Revolution," I told my father the following summer. "Will you bring me with you to the Library of Congress?" 

He did. It was not the first time I had visited America's national library with my father, who is a literary historian; as I recall, he began taking me there when I was eleven. But the summer of 1978, when I had turned fifteen, was the first time I had visited there as a researcher. My father showed me how to look up titles in the _National Union Catalog_ , a book catalogue that filled an entire wall with hundreds of volumes. (These were the days before computers took over the job of keeping such records.) Afterwards, he asked me which aspect of the Agrarian Revolution I wanted to research first. 

I thought about this, and then replied, in my bloodthirsty manner, "The Peterloo Massacre." 

The Peterloo Massacre occurred in Manchester on August 16, 1819, when a peaceful group of reformers held a rally, bringing along their wives and children. Cavalry soldiers dispersed the crowd, using sabers. As the _Encyclopedia Britannica_ puts it, "In 10 minutes the place was cleared except for bodies. The numbers of killed and wounded were disputed; probably about 500 people were injured and 11 killed. [Henry] Hunt and the other radical leaders were arrested, tried, and convicted – Hunt being sent to prison for two years." 

"You might want to look at some newspapers," my father suggested, and soon I was immersed in 1819 newspaper accounts of the massacre. 

Twenty-four years later, I handed my Muse a story about prison abuse, and he handed me back a story about the Agrarian Revolution. That story was _[Debt Price](http://duskpeterson.com/master/#debtprice)_ , which would later appear in my _Master/Other_ story collection. But apparently, my Muse wasn't satisfied with giving me a novella with a 12,000-word passage in which nothing happened except that the characters experienced a series of bad harvests. Instead, while I was writing "Deception" the following year, I discovered that one of my main characters in the Eternal Dungeon series had taken part in a certain peaceful rally that ended with bloodshed and with his own arrest. 

From a historical point of view, "Deception" is anachronistic. "Deception" takes place in 357, while Weldon's arrest occurred in 339. In the Eternal Dungeon's world, three years pass for every one year in our world, so, while "Deception" is set roughly in the year 1881, Weldon's arrest would have been roughly in 1875, three decades after the Corn Laws were repealed in Britain. But the general ferment for workers' rights continued throughout the nineteenth century until, in the 1880s, trade unions began to be formed, taking the place once held by medieval guilds. At that point, conflict between the unions and other forces in society became inevitable. 

Nothing more needs to be said about the historical aspects of _Transformation_. If the reader detects only a faint whisper of societal change in this novel, this is because the characters themselves have experienced no more than that.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Beta readers:_ [Kadymae](http://kadymae.livejournal.com/profile), [Maureen Lycaon](http://maureenlycaon-dw.dreamwidth.org/), and [Parhelion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Parhelion).
> 
> _Medical consultant:_ JW.
> 
> [Publication history](http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#consultation).
> 
> This story was originally published at [duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com). The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2004, 2009, 2010, 2013, 2014, 2016, 2020 Dusk Peterson. Permission is granted for fanworks inspired by this story. Please credit Dusk Peterson and duskpeterson.com for the original story.


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